You Don't Own Me
by ElleQuinzel
Summary: The origin story of Doctor Harleen Quinzel and Patient 0801. Now rated M.
1. Prologue

"Oh, baby, beggin' you to save me.

Well, lately, I like 'em crazy.

Oh, and baby, you could devastate me.

Little lady, come and fade me."

\- Halsey, _Hurricane_

* * *

Prologue

With one hand pressed against the cool metal of the door in front of her, Harleen Quinzel exhaled shakily and bowed her head, eyes shut tight. Her other hand, clammy and trembling, gripped tattered files and an empty notebook, bound together with a pink rubber band. Thick rimmed glasses slipped further down her delicate nose.

On the door, just above her fingertips, was a thin plaque that read: **THERAPY ROOM 419B**

This was it. She had made it. She should be excited, elated, thrilled out of her mind!

Sweaty and sick to her stomach, Harleen instead fought off an anxiety attack and let her mind travel back to yesterday morning.

A mandatory meeting had been held in Arkham Asylum's main conference room, bright and early. All of the doctors and interns of the ward gathered together with sleepy eyes and large cups of coffee, with only one serious topic to be addressed: Joker, their resident psychopathic clown.

"As I'm sure most of you can deduce, we lost another damn psychiatrist," grumbled Jeremiah Arkham, who adjusted his glasses further up his long, crooked nose. He was a tall, gaunt man with thin red hair and hollowed cheeks. A permanent frown pulled at his thin lips.

They all understood his frustration. This had been the fifth psychiatrist to quit this year.

It was only April.

Lifting a clipboard, he read the memo, "Doctor Shannon Grey has resigned. Stated that Joker is, quote, incorrigible and deranged." Slamming the clipboard down on the table, Arkham stood and glared at his employees who had jumped at the sharp noise. "No shit. He's a sociopath, an inmate. A grown man who has killed for sport. Not some troubled teen who needs generic Zoloft and a pat on the head."

Standing at the head of the long conference table, Arkham let his beady eyes scan the room. He scratched at the uneven stubble on his cheek as he spoke, irritated. "If it were up to me, I'd throw Joker in max and leave him there to rot. But as you all know, state law demands equal treatment for the criminally insane and therefore monitored therapy sessions."

A long, impatient inhale through his nose. "So again, I ask for what I am hoping to be the _very last time,_ " Arkham dragged out angrily, his voice low and threatening, "Do I have any takers to adequately tend to this son of a bitch? Somebody looking to stay employed here for more than a damn week?"

Silence settled thick in the air. Most everyone averted their gazes to their hands, their coffees, the wall. Anywhere but him. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Arkham was growing impatient.

And then, from the back of the room, Harleen raised her hand and squeaked before she lost her nerve, "I'll…I'll do it?"

Arkham lifted his head a little and squinted at the blonde. Ah, the new girl. Harriet something-or-other. Just graduated, terribly inexperienced. He let out a humorless laugh and let his gaze drop again to the certified doctors in front of him.

"Very funny. Somebody _qualified_ better speak up soon, or I'll pull a name out of my ass and fire them on the spot."

Lips parting, Harleen felt her cheeks burn at being so carelessly dismissed and cleared her throat, this time speaking louder and with confidence. "I wasn't kidding. Let me take Joker, sir. I can handle him."

All eyes on her now. Hushed laughter. Whispers. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears at all of the unwanted attention.

Arkham grunted and looked around one last time, visibly disappointed before he picked up a thick stack of files and trudged his way to the back of the room. Towards her.

Oh, Lord. What had she done?

Eyes widening, Harleen felt herself straighten as he approached her. Her chair creaked awkwardly as she shifted and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Arkham loomed over her, bony shoulders hunched now, and unceremoniously dropped the files onto her lap. "You start tomorrow. Last a month with him and I'll hire you full-time," he challenged, and some of the interns seated nearby gasped quietly, jealous now and full of regret.

Speechless, Harleen gaped at the files, then back up at him, jaw slack with shock, "I…thank you, Doctor, I-I won't disappoint you, I guarantee my best work and I am sure that with time I can—"

"Whatever. You're all dismissed. Get back to work." And with that, Arkham slunk back to his office.

At his instruction, everybody began to file out of the room, most of them glancing back at Harleen before they left. Like they were trying to memorize her face before she inevitably disappeared.

"Good luck, Quinzel," spat one of the male interns, clapping her on the back just a little too hard. He was clearly bitter about her new opportunity and had stayed behind to taunt her. Harleen winced and leaned away away from him. It wasn't her fault that he didn't have the balls to speak up.

He bent forward to hiss in her ear, his hand curled tightly around her shoulder, "I heard he used to skin people alive. Men, women. Children. Wore their faces like Halloween masks. Burned their corpses. But hey, I'm sure he'll love you, hotness."

As he left, Harleen paled and looked down at the rumpled files, dirty from being passed down from person to person, and nearly pissed herself at the reality of the labelled heading.

 **PATIENT 0801: "JOKER"**

Shaking her head and snapping back to reality, Harleen looked at her watch. 3:54. She was running out of time.

Digging into her white lab coat, she pulled out the plastic key card and swiped it. A small light beside the lock flickered from red to green before she pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.

Wow, was it dark.

To her left she fumbled for the light switch and flipped it up. Nothing. Huh. She jimmied with it for a moment but it zapped her fingertips and she yelped, backing away into the darkness of the room.

"Yeesh…"

Squinting, she padded her way over to what seemed to be a window and opened the blinds, coughing through the falling dust as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight. It was starting to rain.

Turning back, Harleen looked around the now illuminated room and immediately wrinkled her nose in distaste.

There wasn't much to it. One metal table bolted to the center of the room. On either side of it, two cheap plastic chairs that reminded her of high school. One with cuffs and chains, the other without. Both bolted as well. To her left, a rusted file cabinet holding nothing. A very dead potted plant was placed on top.

Grimacing, Harleen placed her files onto the table and tossed the plant into the waste basket. That would have been dreadful to look at. Not that it helped very much. The brick walls were covered with peeling white paint and the room smelled like moth balls.

She wondered if all of the rooms looked like this. Or maybe this was some sort of prank.

Harleen lifted her watch again. 3:57. Her pulse spiked and she scurried over to the table again, heels clicking against the concrete floors. Sitting down, she squirmed and shifted in her seat in an attempt to find a comfortable position, but that was a lost cause. Instead, she spent her final moments opening her notebook, writing the date at the top, and cleaning her reading glasses on the hem of her black skirt.

Clink. Shuffle. Clink. Shuffle.

Nervous blue eyes shot up to stare at the door. They were approaching. His ankles must be shackled. The shuffling grew louder, followed by a low, mischievous giggle that made Harleen feel faint.

Two loud knocks. Another giggle. A gruff _shut up,_ from one of the security guards.

Willing herself not to pass out, Harleen put her glasses back on, fixed her hair one last time, and responded, "Come in."

And then, there he was. Patient 0801, name unknown, offering Harleen a lazy, silver grin that had her reeling.

"Now, now… aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. Will update soon. Reviews are welcomed._


	2. Pretty Please

"Are you big? Are you ugly?

Can you kill a man with your hands?

Are you hot? Do you want me?

Think I don't understand?"

\- Grimes, _Medieval Warfare_

* * *

Pretty damn quick, Harleen knew she wasn't ready. She had stayed up late into the night going over his records, researching his name on the internet, watching clip after grainy clip of his rampages, but nothing compared to the living, breathing psychopathic clown being shoved into the seat in front of her.

Not every inmate at Arkham was a mob boss with blood lust. Why didn't she start off with a gentle schizophrenic?

Rain patted quietly against the glass.

Without all of the makeup and eccentric clothing, Joker was a walking nightmare. He looked physically ill, grey eyes sunken with dark circles, skin glistening with sweat. He had split lip and four stitches above his eyebrow, a yellowing bruise on the side of his jaw. By the way his head lolled, Harleen could tell he was sleep deprived. Or doped up on something.

Immediately, she pitied him. When had he last eaten? Did he have a fever? He must be sweltering in that straight jacket. A frown creased between her brows. His black Arkham pants were filthy, as was his messy green hair that was carelessly pushed back. The mugshot in his file was growing more attractive by the minute.

Joker let his gaze fall heavy upon her figure once situated, his jaw unhinged, and Harleen looked away. The crooked grills where his teeth used to be were hard to look at.

Lightning flashed in the window.

 _A sight for sore eyes._ Did Joker recognize her? Was he already toying with her mind?

Trying to remain professional, Harleen dismissed her initial reaction and instead addressed the two security guards who had positioned themselves stiffly by the door.

She raised a manicured brow, clicked her pen, and decided to reinforce her position of authority straightaway.

"Your presence is unnecessary, gentleman," she told them coolly, swiping a lock of hair behind her ear. "Stand outside, if you must. But I can take it from here."

Joker grunted and cracked his neck, looking mildly impressed.

The guards exchanged an uncomfortable look before the shorter one spoke up, "Ma'am, this inmate took out two of our men last week. They're still in Medical. Piece of shit." He glared at the clown and spat at him. Gross.

Joker ran his tongue slowly along his upper row of metal teeth and chuckled weakly at the man's jab, giving his psychiatrist a smile. "Tough crowd."

Harleen replied back sharply, "Confidentiality is one of the core duties of medical practice. A patient's personal information is to be kept private _,_ " She squinted at the guard's name tag. " _Chad._ Unless, of course, consent to release the information is provided by said patient."

Harleen looked back to Joker, who seemed entranced by her presence, and asked him with raised brows, "Have you provided consent, sir?"

The clown shook his head and pursed his lips, looking terribly scandalized. "Not at all, Doc. Not at all. I feel so… _vulnerable_ , with them here." With his back to the guards, he sniggered, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Satisfied with his answer, Harleen checked her watch before eying the guards impatiently. "You are wasting my limited time with my patient." They hesitated. "Leave."

Grumbling and cursing under their breath, the guards shuffled out of the room and left the two of them alone.

"Girls got spunk," Joker noted to himself, studying her closely with glassy eyes. There seemed to be a constant, primal rumbling in the back of his throat, like a panther.

Harleen jotted down his first notable trait. **Predatory.  
**

Another flash of lightning.

"I apologize for their behavior," she murmured, truly upset. She looked back up at his sickly face. "I can't imagine you would want to share _anything_ with them breathing down your neck."

"Such a sweet voice," Joker's nostrils flared in interest and he licked his lips, shifting uncomfortably in his tight jacket. His eyes landed on the name tag clipped to her coat pocket. "Doctor Harleen Quinzel," he drawled, seeing how her name tasted in his mouth. He rolled his stiff neck, muttering to himself. "Harleen…Harleen… _Harleen._ " It wasn't quite right.

Shivering, she pressed her pen to paper again. **Observant.**

Clearing her throat, Harleen implored gently, "I would prefer it if you called me Doctor, Mr. Joker, to maintain an appropriate atmosphere."

Joker tilted his head to the side and let his eyes roam over her, hungry and dark. "And I would prefer it if you called me Daddy, little girl."

Harleen blanched, startled by his suggestion. "Excuse me?"

An abrupt cackle ripped out of Joker's throat and it rattled her bones.

"Take it easy, Doc," Joker fought off a coughing fit brought on by his laughter. "Though, I really do fancy my own notebook. To write down _your_ qualities."

Self-conscious, Harleen quickly slid her notes closer to herself, out of his view. He coughed out another laugh.

Uncrossing and crossing her legs, she tried again, "I really do insist that you —"

"Where would I even begin?" Joker interrupted dramatically, tapping his toes together in thought. His shackles clinked, his eyes roamed. "Harleeeen Quinzel. Excitable, distressed..." A pause. His eyes travelled over the angle of her jaw, the delicate slope of her nose. Her cupid's bow. His voice dropped. "Foxy."

Okay, that was enough.

"I would like to start now, Mr. Joker," she peered at him knowingly, silently congratulating herself for sounding so collected.

He pouted. It was almost cute. If a nutcase could be endearing.

"My goal here at Arkham is to fully understand my patients," she began, "And with some time and cooperation, help them recover."

Joker rolled his jaw, not particularly dazzled by her opening line. "And how do you expect me to _cooperate_ when you're already lying to me?"

Puzzled, Harleen placed an elbow on the table and absently ran her thumb over the top of her pen. Could he smell her fear? "What do you mean?"

"Take off the glasses, Doc," Joker shook his head, frowning. She felt chastised. "You and I both know you don't need them."

Her cheeks and neck flushed pink, because he was right. Of course he was right. They were a last minute drug store purchase. Low-prescription reading glasses to help her look the part.

She _really_ didn't want to comply and give him the satisfaction, but Harleen reminded herself that trust was a two-way street. Take a little, give a little. And try to keep the upper hand.

Hating herself a bit, she set down her pen and moved to take off her glasses.

"That's right," Joker coaxed, muttering to himself. Oddly, she felt her body hum in response. "Let me see those eyes."

Slipping her glasses into her pocket, Harleen fidgeted before looking at him warily from beneath long, blonde lashes.

"Good girl." Joker leaned back in his chair, trying to relax. With legs spread wide, his head drooped again.

Poor, poor man. She glanced at his forehead. _Damaged._ Of course he was.

It was pouring now.

"How are you feeling today, Mr. Joker?" she asked cautiously. Soft.

Joker rolled his eyes. "Hell is empty and all the devils are here," he snarled at her, a sudden change of mood. "How do you think I'm feeling?"

Her fingertips itched to grab her pen, to document his response, but she held back.

She made a mental note to report the staff to Arkham. So many blatant signs of neglect. She frowned.

"I apologize for your discomfort. Is there anything I can do for you, during our sessions? I want this to be your safe space."

Joker snorted, shifting again in his jacket. Thunder rumbled through the clouds.

After a moment, he addressed her quietly. A change of heart? "There is one thing you can do for me."

Blinking rapidly, Harleen straightened in her chair and nodded, eager to help, "What is it?"

Arms still bound, Joker scooted forward, the rain beating against the glass from the harsh winds. A long pause, then, "Can I have a hug?"

Deflating a little, Harleen gave him a sad smile. "Prolonged physical contact is prohibited between doctor and patient, Mr. Joker."

Joker dipped his chin and searched her face. Her heart went out to him. He looked so fragile. "Please, Doc? You must understand how _hard_ it is for me." He frowned. "They beat me, you know. The staff." His arms pulled against his restraints, trying to gesture. "I haven't eaten a decent meal in days."

Harleen felt her eyes burn, tears fast approaching. She sniffled and uncrossed her legs, reconsidering. "I suppose..." A little sigh. "I suppose I could. But only for a moment."

Watching her stand, Joker felt his body come alive. He shifted again. "Doc, you have no idea how much this means to me..."

It was just one hug. Past all of the tattoos and silver teeth, he was just a man in need of affection. Troubled and alone.

Biting her lip, Harleen moved around the table. It took barely three steps to reach him, but she wasn't even given the chance to open her arms.

His onslaught happened rough and fast. A loud rip, a snarl, and Harleen was slammed up against the wall. Her head bounced hard off of the jagged brick. She saw stars as she bled, wincing.

He had managed to unbuckle his jacket. All of that squirming... why didn't she see it coming?

Tossing the restraints to the floor, Joker lunged at her, pinning her to the wall with one arm. His opposite hand yanked her head back by her bun, exposing her neck.

Through her dizziness and pain, Harleen wanted to vomit as she felt a hot tongue lick a long, broad stripe from the base of her throat all the way up to her chin. Wrapping his fist around her neck, Joker pressed his mouth against her ear.

"So fucking _good_ ," he growled, laughing low and throaty. He slammed her head against the wall again. More stars.

Gasping for breath, Harleen grappled desperately for the panic button in her coat pocket, her other hand clawing at Joker's wrist.

"Harleen Quinzel..." He brushed his nose against hers as she wheezed. It still tasted so bitter on his tongue. He added his other hand to press against her throat.

Harleen scratched at his wrists, blue eyes wet and terrified as she choked on a scream, "Please...please...!"

"Please? _Pretty please?_ " Joker mocked, mimicking her high-pitched voice. He giggled and tightened his grip considerably.

"Tick, tock, goes the clock, he cradled her and rocked her," Joker sang to her sweetly, and Harleen felt her grip slackening, eyes growing heavy. "Tick, tock, goes the clock, even for the doctor…"

* * *

 _Thank you all so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites. Will update soon._


	3. So Impersonal

"I can smell your fear.

The only reason that I'm here is to wreak havoc.

Everybody praying that I'll change. Yeah, maybe one day.

But tomorrow I'll be back at it."

\- Skylar Grey, _Wreak Havoc_

* * *

"Damn. Another one bites the dust."

"Tch. I don't feel bad for her. She asked for it when she told security to leave."

"Dude, take a look at her neck! She's still breathing, right?"

A pause. Pressure was applied to the inside of her wrist.

"Yeah, she's alive. Uppity bitch. I bet Arkham will fire her on the spot when he finds out."

"Where's Joker now?"

"Solitary, I think." A low chuckle. "They broke his arm."

Engulfed by darkness, Harleen gathered whatever fight she had left and opened her eyes, but the therapy room spun wickedly in response. She groaned quietly and immediately closed them, trying to rid herself of the vertigo.

"Shit, she's waking up. Call Medical." She felt a hand cup the back of her neck and light smacking against her cheek. "Wakey-wakey, hotness."

His fingers were digging into her skull. She let out a weak cry of pain.

"Oh, God, she's bleeding everywhere! Fuck!" The faceless man dropped her head to the floor in disgust and it knocked her right out. "Whoops."

* * *

" _Harleeeen. Wake up, Harleen. Come to Daddy."_

 _Hysterical laughter seeped in through her follicles to rattle her brain. He was relentless._

 _She began to see things, images flashing white-hot and high speed behind her eyes:_

 _Blue veins beneath transparent skin. Crimson lips. Short green hair. Bloody teeth._

 _More sadistic, twisted laughter tore through her like knives._

" _You want this… You know you want this…"_

 _Tormented and twitching in terror, Harleen whimpered and tried to pry non-existent hands from her neck._

 _The voice in her head crescendoed, a violent, furious roar:_

" _Come on, Harleen! Let me see those EYES!"_

* * *

Drenched in sweat, Harleen gasped and shot up with wide, bloodshot eyes. There was a thin oxygen tube positioned in her nose that kept her from falling forward completely.

God, she felt positively punch-drunk.

Inhaling slowly, Harleen lifted trembling, feminine fingers to her neck. The flesh there was tender and she hissed before looking around in alarm.

Plastic privacy curtains. A sterile counter with an open drawer exposing medical tools. Beside it, a metal stool and a monitor that beeped faintly. Her lab coat on a hook behind her, the collar stained with blood. She looked down and saw that she laying in a hospital cot.

The Asylum Infirmary. She was still inside Arkham.

With that thought in mind, Harleen turned, snatched the waste basket from the floor, and promptly vomited into it.

It didn't take long for one of the nurses, an older woman in blue scrubs, to pull back the curtain at the sound of her retching. Her face was twisted with pity.

"Ah, dear. I recommend you lay back down when you're finished. You may have dodged a concussion, but you still need to rest."

Tears had collected in Harleen's eyes from the forced of her dry-heaving and she looked up. Linda, her name tag read.

"How long have I been here?" Harleen's voice was scratchy, like she had bronchitis. Ouch. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Forty minutes at the most, Doctor." Linda looked up from her digital wristwatch and gave her a sad smile. "Took quite a spill, didn't you?"

Still shaken up from her night terror, Harleen couldn't find it in her to laugh. Instead, she set down the basket and winced when felt a sharp pull at her skin.

Blue eyes drifted over to the IV in her arm, then back up to the nurse. "What's this?"

"A morphine drip. It was what Arkham suggested."

Her heart sank. Shit.

Pinching the bridge of her nose in deep apprehension, Harleen shook her head and groaned, "No, no, no…"

Arkham must be livid. Strangled by her very first patient? She was so screwed.

Linda stepped forward and patted her gently on the shoulder. "Please lay back, ma'am. Doctor Arkham will be back to check on you shortly." Wait, what?

Before Harleen could protest, the nurse disappeared behind the curtain, taking the waste basket with her.

A sudden clap of thunder made her flinch. Would it ever stop raining? Typical Gotham.

Leaning back carefully, Harleen looked up to the ceiling and sighed. At least the morphine was starting to kick in. The excruciating pain from before was now a dull, muted headache, and when she shifted against the pillow, Harleen felt stitches snag at the fabric.

Sheesh. What a day.

Arkham appeared ten minutes later and from his disturbed expression, Harleen figured that she must look like death. Neck littered with bruises, blonde hair matted with blood. Tear stained cheeks.

She offered him a tight, stupid smile.

There was no greeting. No inquiry about how she was feeling, no murmured apology about her situation. He just stared at her for a long, dreadful moment before taking off his glasses and rubbing a hand over his face.

"I don't even know where to begin with you. Within a span of twenty minutes you completely disregarded ward security, wrote down virtually nothing, and almost got yourself killed."

Harleen parted her lips to defend herself but the look in Arkham's eyes was enough to shut her up. Ashamed, she looked down at her hands.

"Your lack of responsibility and disrespect for my institution makes me sick." He paused, then snapped, "Quinzel, look at me."

She looked up, exasperated. "Sir, everything was fine until I approached him, I just thought —"

"You thought _wrong._ Your behavior is unacceptable and you're lucky that I'm still keeping you on the payroll." He ran a hand through his red hair before pointing at her angrily. "Get your shit together. I have another applicant to handle 0801. Once you've recovered, you'll work the reception desk on the main floor."

Arkham turned to leave and Harleen paled. Eight grueling years of schooling, just to end up answering phones and filing paperwork?

Without thinking, she ripped the IV from her arm, pulled the breathing tube off of her face and stumbled out of bed.

Yanking back the curtain, Harleen called out to her departing boss.

"No!" She took a couple of steps forward, feeling like Bambi on ice, and leaned against an empty stretcher. "No. I won't allow it."

Arkham turned around and raised his eyebrows, blown away by her attitude. "What did you just say to me?"

"He's _my_ patient," Harleen replied fiercely, pointing to her chest and pushing her impending fear of the clown as far away as possible. "I get it, I messed up. But I endured the consequences _._ " Arkham looked at her like she had three heads. "That should be punishment enough, Doctor."

Arkham adjusted his glasses and scoffed, shaking his head. "Quinzel —"

"Joker is _mine!"_ Harleen shouted, her throat on fire, and she took another step forward. "I'm the one who signed up for his crazy, and I will be the one to take it away from him. Nobody else."

She seethed and fought off another dizzy spell. Her body screamed for morphine. "Ya understand me?"

It was hard not go Brooklynn when she was so mad.

There was a stretch of silence where Arkham clenched and unclenched his fists, looking exhausted with her general existence. Then, he grumbled, "You have one more chance, Quinzel. One. Fail me again?" He jabbed a finger in her direction. "You're axed."

Harleen almost fell over. She didn't know whether to be elated or petrified.

"This conversation is over. Lay the hell back down before you break your neck." He whipped around. "Linda!"

The wide-eyed nurse who had witnessed their exchange, wrung her hands together. "Sir?"

"Don't just stand there! Do your damn job and tend to Dr. Quinzel!" Again, he turned to leave.

"Wait!" Harleen rushed after him, stumbling like an idiot.

Linda sprang forward and grabbed a hold of Harleen before she could trip.

Turning angrily, Arkham shouted, "I swear to God —"

"Where is he?"

"What kind of question is that? He's back in Solitary." Before Harleen could interrupt, he spat, "Confined and _sedated_. Like a mangy animal should be."

* * *

Four days of insomnia and pain killers later, Harleen was ready to pull her hair out and demanded that she went back to work. The bruises around her neck that once marred her skin black and blue were starting to fade, but she decided not to cover them up.

What was the point of a battle if she couldn't show off her scars?

She got plenty of looks when she walked through main security Friday morning.

The stitches on the back of her skull made it impossible for Harleen to wear her hair up without screaming, so she let it fall in sleek, blonde waves over her shoulders and tried her best not to touch it.

Her phone rang the minute she stepped into her office. Setting down her coffee, Harleen moved around her desk to answer it. "Quinzel speaking."

"Hello, Doctor? Uh…" The young man on the other line trailed off and she furrowed her brow.

"Yes? Who am I speaking to?"

"Steven from—from sixth floor confinement, ma'am," he fumbled. An intern.

He had her attention. Lifting her cup to sip at it, she replied calmly, "How may I help you, Steven?"

"A certain patient is asking to speak with you." A nervous beat. "Demanding it, would be a better word."

Harleen choked a little and hot coffee dribbled down her chin. Hastily, she wiped it away.

"Are you okay, ma'am?"

"Yes, I'm fine. But, um — our session isn't for another three hours. You can tell him that —" Some shuffling was heard on the other line. Then silence. Harleen frowned. "Steven?"

"Mmm, didn't think I'd get to hear that voice again." A deep, grating chuckle. "How's it hangin'?"

Harleen felt herself flush at the familiar voice. Trying to collect herself, she wondered if this unmonitored conversation was even allowed. "I've been better, Mr. Joker."

Joker huffed. "I don't like the sound of that."

Chuckling bitterly, Harleen shook her head. "What did you expect?"

"No, Doc, not you. That name."

She pouted. Of course.

He breathed heavily into the receiver. "So impersonal, don't you think?"

"Your refusal to provide your real name doesn't leave me with a lot of options."

Joker growled. "That _is_ my name. But I don't prefer it, coming from you."

Tired of his attitude already, Harleen rubbed at her eyes. "What do you suggest I call you, then? Bozo? Pennywise?" She was still getting over that nightmare.

"J. Call me J."

She considered it for a moment. "J, huh? That's it?"

"They broke my arm, you know." He sounded frustrated. "It was very inconsiderate, Doc. I'm not ambidextrous."

For some reason, Harleen felt like apologizing, but she had too much pride. "Yeah, well. I have nine stitches in the back of my head, if it makes you feel any better."

A pause. She could hear his grin through the phone. "You're right, it does."

"I'm hanging up now. I have other patients to attend to." A lie. Two could play at this game.

"Others? Who?" He demanded.

Harleen bit back a grin. "None of your business. Confidentiality, remember?"

"Harleen…" It sounded like a warning.

"I'll see you in a little bit, Mr. J."

"I'm not done talking to you!"

Click.

Satisfied and finally feeling in control of her life, Harleen absently ran her fingers along the bruises on her neck and tried to ignore how fast her heart was beating.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. You're all amazing and your reviews, follows, and favorites mean the world. Will update soon._


	4. A Real Knee-Slapper

"Are you insane like me? Been in pain like me?

Bought a hundred dollar bottle of champagne like me?

Just to pour that motherfucker down the drain like me?

Would you use your water bill to dry the stain like me?"

\- Halsey, _Gasoline_

* * *

"I've got a joke for you, Doc."

"Maybe later. There's a few things we still need to take care of." She bent over to open her briefcase. "Things we could've gotten out of the way, last we met," Harleen gave Joker a sharp glare, and he scowled.

What a buzzkill. It was a really good one, too.

Rather than being cooped up in Room 419B, they were cooped up in confinement. This time, however, they were separated by thick, bullet proof glass.

It was a win-win, in her mind. Joker would have the liberty to move around freely in his cell, jacketless, and Harleen wouldn't have to worry about being sent back to that wretched infirmary if he had an outburst.

This was for the best.

In a much more comfortable chair, Harleen seated herself a few feet away from his cell and used her lap as leverage to write. Having been denied a chair of his own, Joker sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall. His arm was now in a cast and a sling held it in place.

Gaze lingering, Joker bent his knees and rolled his neck. She figured with such a crummy pillow, it must always be sore.

"Sure you don't want to come in here and sign my cast?" He teased.

Harleen gave him a look and shut her brief case. Hard. That was a no.

"Fine, go on. Ask whatever it is you need." He gestured toward her expectantly with a flourish of his hand, disappointed.

Joker didn't look dead anymore. He was wearing clean Arkham clothes and she could tell that he had been properly bathed and fed. It made her smile a little bit. They must have received her complaint.

Flipping open his file, Harleen scanned the top page, a standard patient information form that was virtually empty. Nothing was filled in, aside from his prison number, alias, and an estimated age of thirty-five.

Name, Date of Birth, Relationship Status. General Medical History. Insurance Provider.

All blank. The previous doctors didn't get very far.

Tapping her foot, she decided to start off with something harmless. "When was the last time you had your blood tested?"

Joker laughed to himself. "Weird pick-up line, toots. Though, I suppose it's better than 'what's your sign'."

Harleen blew a strand of hair from her face, annoyed. "Please answer the question, Mr. J."

"You first."

Fighting back a groan, Harleen scratched the side of her nose and shrugged impatiently. "I don't know, Virgo, I think. Now you."

"Sagittarius." He smirked and placed a hand behind his head. Ugh.

Obviously getting nowhere, Harleen tried a different approach. Gathering her things, she stood and sighed, dejected. "I knew this would be pointless. Nice knowing ya, J."

She started to walk away. Three, two, one…

"Wait, wait." Joker held a hand out as if to halt her and soon after grunted in pain, sinking back. It had been his bad arm.

Pleased with herself, Harleen looked over her shoulder and blinked, waiting.

The clown ran a hand through his hair, irritated, and mumbled, "Two weeks ago. Something like that."

Harleen knew she was pushing it, but she couldn't help herself. "Sorry, what was that? Speak up a little."

Joker flicked his gaze up to her sharply, his rage building. "Harleen."

She had given up on trying to keep her name out of his mouth. Besides, they were alone. She had to pick her battles.

Smiling now, Harleen plopped back down into her chair and clicked her pen, jotting down this new information. She moved onto the next question. "Are you on any medication?"

He snorted and worked his jaw. "Boy, am I. Want some?" He flashed his grill. "For you, free of charge."

Tucking some hair behind her ear, Harleen chuckled dryly and shook her head. "Not interested."

"What _are_ you interested in?" Joker let his eyes roam over her with curiosity. "Do you like to dance? I know a great place."

Harleen checked some boxes, not looking at him. "We're not here to talk about me."

"Can't blame a guy for trying." He rolled up his sleeves. "There has to be something other than this nuthouse that makes you tick."

She played along for a moment and mulled it over, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Gymnastics, I guess. It's been a while, though." Harleen gave him a look. "And that's all that you're getting out of me."

Joker had leaned forward in rapt attention, but didn't say anything in return, his eyes glazed over in thought.

A little concerned, Harleen spoke up once the silence got eerie. "Mr. J?"

Snapping out of it, Joker relaxed back against the wall and gave her a boyish smile. "Sorry about that, Doc."

Harleen fiddled with her necklace. Maybe she was getting somewhere. "Was it something I said?"

"The mental image of you doing the splits," Joker tapped at his head with a sly grin. "Filing that one away for later."

A flush crawled up her neck at the comment and she was tempted to kick in the glass so she could smack him.

Sensing her discomfort, Joker sighed and lightly banged his head back against the wall. "Kidding, Doc. Kidding. Lighten up a little."

"Did you act this way with Doctor Grey?" Harleen blurted, startling herself with her curiosity.

Joker eyed her strangely. "In what way?" He paused. "I joke around, Doc. It's sort of my thing." Another grin.

"I meant the flirting," she corrected. "Your relentless innuendoes and sexual remarks. Did you do that with her?"

Intrigued, Joker titled his head and asked slowly, "Why do you care?"

Harleen was at a loss for words. She didn't know who to be frustrated with anymore.

Before she could come up with some kind of reasonable answer, her wristwatch beeped.

"We're almost out of time." She looked at him for a while, struggling. He waited. "I could have lost my job. I know this is all fun and games for you, but this is my career. I don't know anything else."

"If you're so concerned, get yourself a different patient, Harleen." Joker turned bitter. "You already _have_ others. Cross me off your list." He waved her off. "Move along."

"That isn't what I want."

Joker looked hungry again. Shit, no. Fix it quickly.

"I _mean_ , that's not what I meant." That wasn't great either. Really smooth, Harleen.

Her watch beeped a second time. She frowned.

"Times up." Joker stood and stretched, his shirt riding up.

Harleen had forgotten how tall he was.

"The blue pills, I'm afraid, make me drowsy." He yawned and nodded towards her. "Also, your shoes are untied."

Gullible and distracted, Harleen looked down to her scuffed up heels and fumed. Joker cackled and made his way to his thin, shitty cot.

She rolled her eyes at his juvenile prank and shoved his file into her briefcase. Another wasted session. "Hilarious, really. A real _knee-slapper_ , Mr. J."

Splayed out on the small mattress, Joker draped an arm over his eyes, exposing the inked depiction of a wide grin on his forearm. He let out a dramatic, raspy groan. "Can't you see I'm trying to sleep? Get lost, kid. You can let yourself out."

Harleen stomped off towards the elevator, but her shoulders relaxed when he heard his low, warm chuckling.

She needed a drink.

* * *

"See, this is why I didn't want to tell you. Cause I knew you'd flip out!" Rubbing at the back of her neck, Harleen rolled her eyes for the millionth time today. "Honestly, Mom. I'm fine."

"You're _fine?_ " Her mother shrieked into the receiver and Harleen winced, pulling the phone away from her suffering eardrum. "Waddaya mean, you're fine? You got assaulted by a homicidal maniac, you _ain't fine!_ "

Groaning, Harleen glanced up to the clock on the wall of her office. It was already 9:30. They had been at this for fifteen minutes.

"Mom, I've been here for twelve hours and I want to go home," she whined. She slipped off her shoes and stretched her toes. Her feet were killing her and a hot bath sounded great right about now.

"We ain't finished talkin' about this, young lady."

Harleen was about to snap. She was twenty-eight years old, for Christ sakes. "Mom—" A red light flashed twice on the phone dock. "Mom, I have to let you go. There's someone on the other line."

"Like hell there is!"

" _Bye,_ Mom."

Desperate to escape, Harleen slammed her finger onto line two. "Quinzel."

"Um, hi." The man sounded stressed. "Steven again. Heh. From sixth floor, remember?"

Harleen could feel a migraine coming on.

Somewhere in the background, she heard a rough, " _Be polite, damn it. No wonder you're single."_

Steven jumped to it, in a much higher, nervous octave. "How are you today, ma'am?"

This was getting ridiculous. Harleen shook her head, fatigued. "Fine, Steven. But I'm about to leave."

"Um, she said she's leaving, sir." His voice was muffled and she figured his palm must be over the receiver. A pause, then, "Okay, okay! Here, take it!"

Unamused, Harleen hid a yawn behind her hand.

"Take some of my pills, Doc?" Some shuffling. _"You can't take that in there, sir!"_ A door slam.

Harleen took off her earrings. "It's very late. Do I need to report you, Mr. J?" She probably should have hours ago.

"No need, no need. I'll keep it short."

Fiddling with a thread on her lab coat, she leaned back in her chair. She heard banging somewhere behind Joker. "Please stop messing with him. He's just a kid." She closed her eyes.

Joker gasped, affronted. "What, _Stevie?_ He's no kid! He's a strapping young man, isn't that right?"

A beat. Then, timidly and far away, _"Thank you, sir."_

Harleen was certain that she could pass out any moment. She decided to be blunt. "J, I'm falling asleep in my chair. As _charming_ as this is, can't it wait until Monday's session?"

Joker made a sound of protest, but he compromised. "Tell you what, Doc. I'll let you skedaddle if you tell me what you think of my joke."

Rubbing at her temple, Harleen sighed softly, and shrugged. "Fine. But it better be short."

Joker cleared his throat, and she could tell he was delighted.

"A man makes an appointment with a psychiatrist. He says, _Doc, my wife thinks I'm crazy because I like sausages!_ The psychiatrist replies, _Nonsense. I like sausages too._ "

Harleen raised a brow, and Joker continued.

"To which the patient says, _Good, you should come and see my collection. I've got hundreds of them!_ "

Despite herself, Harleen snorted abruptly. Joker found this hilarious and broke into a peal of laughter. Embarrassed, she started to giggle, only furthering the clown's amusement.

A fellow coworker walking by gave her a funny stare and Harleen quickly swiveled around in her chair, facing away from him.

She grumbled into the phone. "Shut up."

"Did you like it?" His voice was low and pleased. Seductive. He already knew the answer.

Harleen slipped her shoes back on and turned off her lamp, her cheeks burning.

"Good night, Mr. J."

If this was going to be a regular thing, she would need to stock her desk with Tylenol.

Arkham's office was on the way out, and Harleen stopped short in front of it. Adjusting her purse over her shoulder nervously, she realized that he needed to know. About the calls, about Steven. It wasn't appropriate behavior. It was the right thing to do.

Harleen kept on walking.

* * *

 _God, guys. You're all fantastic. Thank you all so much for everything. Will update very soon. Also, I saw The Killing Joke yesterday and I highly recommend it. Hamill is a God._

 _Chapter dedicated to wraysfords. Get better soon!_


	5. Naughty Girl

"Cause I've done some things

that I can't speak.

And I've tried to wash you away,

but you just wont leave.

I'm begging you to keep on haunting me."

\- Halsey, _Haunting_

 **Warning: This chapter contains mature content.**

* * *

By some miracle, the sun was out on Monday morning. Through the blinds in her bedroom came welcomed beams of light. For once, Gotham was no longer under bleak, rainy shadows. It was bliss. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, Harleen rolled over in crisp white sheets and brushed some hair from her face. She hummed to herself, contented.

Consequently, the man lying beside her shifted closer and rubbed his cheek against her bare shoulder. It felt scratchy from stubble, but the sleepy little kiss pressed to her skin made Harleen smile.

"Did I wake you?" she murmured, resting her cheek against her palm. Her other hand lifted to run through her boyfriend's brown curls.

He mumbled something incoherent in response, still mostly asleep, and rolled over.

Harleen chuckled and slipped out of bed. He had gotten home much later than she did and at 8:15 in the morning, he was still understandably out of it.

Brandon had moved into her apartment six months ago and things were… decent. She cooked, he cleaned. Wednesday was movie night. Sometimes his friends stopped by for drinks. They were thinking about getting a dog. Her mother even liked him.

He wasn't particularly exciting to be around, but he was safe. And down the line, they would get married and have babies.

She found security in a nice man. This was what she wanted.

Stepping out of the shower, Harleen carefully ruffled her wet hair with a towel, avoiding the healing stitches, and slipped on her robe. The birds were chirping away outside, and she laughed. She couldn't remember a morning this cheerful and _normal_ in months.

Maybe Batman was on vacation. The guy brought gloom wherever he went.

As coffee brewed, Harleen decided to straighten up. She didn't like to come home to a dirty house. It seemed as though Brandon had stumbled right into bed after work, what with his clothes strewn all over the living room and hallway, and she shook her head in amusement. Men.

After gathering his work shirt and slacks into a laundry basket, she lifted his jacket off of the couch to hang it up, and stopped short.

A piece of lacy, red fabric had fallen from his pocket onto the floor. Setting the laundry basket on the counter, Harleen bent down to pick it up and paled when she turned it over in her hands. It was a thong that definitely did _not_ belong to her.

Heart pounding, she scrunched up the undergarment in her fist and paced. This was a gift. It _had_ to be a gift from Brandon, for her. Something to spice up the average, missionary, five-minute sex they had once a week.

But there wasn't any price tag. And with closer inspection they looked… _used._

Mortified and disgusted, Harleen got herself a glass of water, burst into the bedroom, and sloshed it in Brandon's face.

Startled from the cold, he yelped and sat up, wiping water from his eyes. "Gah! What are you doing?"

Harleen chucked the thong at him, and it landed in his lap.

"The hell is this, Brandon?" she demanded, gesturing at it. Her boyfriend froze and her heart sank.

Panicked, Brandon met her eyes. "Harleen, this isn't what it looks like."

"I can't _believe_ you." Tears were already blurring her vision. She had always been an angry crier.

He got out of bed and Harleen backed away from him, fuming. "Don't you dare come near me."

With water still dripping down his face, Brandon followed her into the kitchen, pulling on a pair of pants and tripping a little. "They aren't mine! You've got it all wrong!"

"They ain't _yours_?" Harleen repeated, incredulous, and threw up her hands, "Then why did I find them in ya goddamn jacket?"

Already failing at his own argument, Brandon stepped towards her and whined, "You gotta understand, you… you're gone, _all the time_ , Q! I never see you!" He let out a frustrated yell. "What was I supposed to do?"

Harleen saw red. "Screw you, Brandon. Screw. You." She stormed back into the bedroom, and Brandon chased after her.

"What are you doing?"

She yanked a drawer from her dresser and emptied it onto the floor. A pile of his clothes gathered at her feet. "What does it look like? I'm kicking you out, you piece of trash!"

Slicking back his wet hair, Brandon carefully stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Sweetheart, just breath for a sec—"

Harleen slapped him hard across the face but he didn't budge, only wrapping his arms further around her once he shook off the pain.

"Get. Off. Me." she gritted out, struggling in his arms. Brandon started to kiss down her neck.

"Let me make it up to you," he breathed hotly below her ear. "C'mon, let me fix this."

His grip was strong and Harleen couldn't wiggle out of it. Sickeningly, she felt him grow hard against her thigh.

"Brandon, stop it!" she shrieked, beating at his chest with her fists. He pulled away but only to kiss her fiercely, pushing her down onto the bed.

Calloused fingers had started to undo her robe.

Frightened now and trapped, Harleen reached over to the nightstand and grappled blindly, until her hand wrapped around a large vase holding tulips.

His hand was trailing down between her legs. "You're so beautiful, Q…"

With one final, infuriated yell, Harleen smashed the vase over his head, and he fell heavily to the floor with a resounding, terrible _thud._

* * *

Parked in the employee lot at Arkham, Harleen stared at her steering wheel with damp hair and puffy eyes. She didn't notice the sun, this time. She didn't hear the birds, or feel the pain from her stitches. It was the weird, hazy mixture of coffee and Vicodin that kept her from completely losing it.

Was it possible to feel everything and nothing at once?

Once nine o'clock came around, Harleen dabbed at her eyes with a wrinkled tissue and took a long, tremulous breath. She had to go inside. She'd clock in late and she couldn't be late.

Rent was due next week.

With flushed cheeks, Harleen made her way through security, flashing her ID and quickly tucking her top into her skirt. One of the guards sneezed into his elbow and she flinched hard, earning her an alarmed stare.

"Uh, sorry, ma'am." He sniffled. "Allergies. Not used to weather like this."

Harleen gave him a tight smile and wordlessly moved along. The other guard mumbled something under his breath about dumb blondes, but she didn't trust herself to speak without throwing up.

She kept her head down on her way to her office and, as a result, ran headfirst into Arkham, knocking her to the ground.

"Christ, Quinzel, watch it." He grumbled, eying her as he helped Harleen to her feet. "Forgot your glasses?"

Having broken into a cold sweat, she nodded shakily, breathless. "Sorry, sir, yes. Left them at home." A forced laugh. "Silly me."

"Well, wake up. Wouldn't want to bump into a patient." He raised a thick, greying eyebrow. "They may not be as understanding."

Apologizing again, Harleen stepped around him and power-walked down to the elevator. Once the doors were closed, she sank to the ground and fought off a panic attack.

It would be easy to call the police and explain that it had been self defense. That Brandon was forcing himself on her and it had to be done. That wasn't a lie.

But it wasn't the truth, either.

Holding back a scream, Harleen slammed her hand against the button for Floor 6.

* * *

"Where are the keys?"

Harleen was trembling hard, her lab coat and purse discarded on the floor of the Confinement Office.

Steven, lanky and pubescent, stared up at her from his desk with wide, brown eyes.

"Uh — I'm not supposed — you'd need a warrant, ma'am—"

During his stammering, Harleen had spotted the ring of keys on the wall behind him and she moved around his desk, snatching them off the hook

"Doctor Quinzel, you aren't allowed—!"

Disregarding his existence, she slammed the door on the way out.

On the days when therapy didn't take place, Joker was held in an ordinary cell. Just a crappy, dark room sealed with a thick, steel door at the end of a long corridor of other crazies. No glass and conversation, just shadows and silence.

Taking off her wretched heels, Harleen sprinted around the corner and caught the attention of the two heavily armored guards. Shit.

"Patient 0745 escaped," she panted, pointing desperately behind her. "They need—They need back up immediately, gentleman." Her blue eyes were wild with worry as she lied. "There's children in visitation, and you know how he is with _kids_ —"

"Shit," the guard grunted, visibly upset. He motioned for his partner to follow him as they raced for the stairs.

Once they were out of sight, Harleen bolted the length of the hall, high on adrenaline and anxiety, and her hair was wild as it blew behind her.

The sign on the cell was crooked and yellowing.

 **NAME UNKNOWN**

 **0801**

This was it. There was no turning back now.

Without pretense, Harleen jammed the key into the lock and twisted it, pushing the door open to reveal a lounging Joker who was lazily shuffling playing cards.

His eyes were cast downward, not paying attention. "Give me a minute, Steven. I've finally got the hang of it with this despicable cast."

A soft, feminine sob that was not definitely Steven's answered him back.

Joker looked up immediately and squinted in disbelief. "Doc?" A pause, then quietly to himself, "Am I hallucinating again? 'Cause I've gotta say, this is a bad trip."

Harleen closed the door behind her, locked it, and bawled, "Mr. J, I messed up." She hiccuped and shook her head, distraught. "I messed up real bad."

Setting down his cards, Joker addressed her seriously and beckoned her to his cot.

"C'mere, Harls, come tell Daddy all about it."

Harls. Joker smiled inwardly. Huh. Now _that_ felt good on his tongue.

Surrendering and hysterical, Harleen all but ran to him, falling into his arms.

"I-I didn't mean to, I'm not a bad person, I swear, but I was so _angry—"_ She sobbed into his shoulder and Joker ran pale fingers patiently through her wavy hair.

This was the most entertainment he'd had in months. Hands-on HBO.

"Now, now, calm down," he cooed, "Let's start from the beginning, shall we?"

Harleen took a deep, ragged breath in hopes to settle herself.

Joker gave her a gentle pat on the head. "Good girl."

"My—my boyfriend, he cheated on me," Harleen choked out, "I found some other girl's panties in his coat." A fresh wave of tears followed.

Staring at the wall above her head, Joker frowned.

Really? _This_ was why she broke into his cell? How boring. At least she was a warm body.

"Then he was comin' onto me, ya know like, gettin' physical. But I didn't want any part of that, 'cause of what had just happened," she continued, shoulders shaking.

Joker ran a hand down her back and sighed, hoping she would be done soon.

"And that's when I did it." Harleen had grown quiet. Very quiet.

Joker's gaze shot up in realization, and he had to bite back a moan.

Oh, naughty, naughty girl. His felt his body buzz with excitement.

"What did you do, Harleen?"

"I hit him over the head. With a vase." She stopped, clearly struggling.

Joker let his eyes roll back, relishing the moment. Christ, this was too good to be true.

"Then what?" he coaxed lowly, a hungry growl. _Say it… Say it…_

He could feel Harleen's pulse hammer against his own chest.

And then, finally, quietly, but oh so _sweet_ ,

"I killed him."

* * *

 _Not a cannon sub-plot, and a little out of character for Harleen, but don't worry. Everything has its purpose. Nothing will be rushed. Just you wait. ;) Thank you all again for reading and reviewing. Will update soon._


	6. Final Answer

"I clutched your arms like stairway railings.

And you clutched my brain and eased my ailing."

\- Halsey, _Is There Somewhere_

* * *

Back in the penthouse above Smile and Grin, Joker used to sleep like a baby. The ground-shaking bass that his strippers would gyrate to, the whirring sirens of the city. The occasional gunshot and bar fight when the atmosphere was hot. Bodies dropping, glass shattering. It was all a beautiful, chaotic lullaby that had him out like a light.

Not at Arkham. Aside from the occasional, manic shrieks from the other inmates, it was silent as the grave. He could easily hear a pin drop from down the hall, and his ears never stopped ringing.

At first, Joker didn't mind. It had been a while since he could enjoy his own company and lounge in solitude. Seclusion had its perks. But forty-eight hours of mind-numbing, excruciating peace later — _that_ could drive a man mad.

In this godforsaken hellhole that he kept being thrown into, he hardly slept.

Joker would hate to admit it, but the lack of _life_ in Arkham was truly punishing him. They had upped their game on security and after being tased and beaten daily, not to mention the current fractures in his arm — it was hard to stay motivated. Brooding was a distant memory. How depressing.

It had been an ordinary morning for him. Some chit-chat with Steven, a good boy who was severely underpaid. An attempt at meditation, see also: bullshit. Then a scrumptious piece of stale, molding toast and warm well-water to wash it all down.

Fortunately, good ol' Stevie had snuck in a pack of playing cards the week before to keep him occupied. When he finally breaks out of this dump, he'd make sure that the kid was rewarded. Maybe even offer him a job, if he bulked up. Some of his henchmen would be retiring soon. Had to keep them young, dependable. Fresh meat. A broken hip and bad knees would be detrimental during a heist, or a robbery.

Enter Harleen Quinzel, damsel in distress, breaking all of the rules.

Joker couldn't believe his damn eyes when she came running to him. Well, he could _understand_ it. He was devastatingly handsome, after all. Who could resist such an exquisite face? It wasn't easy, being so irresistible.

But the way Harleen clung onto him, as if they were much closer, as if he hadn't strangled the life out of her a week ago — it weirded him out. He valued his personal space and she had forced herself into it.

Besides, she was educated, well-mannered, and just look at her _face,_ what a dame. With all of these combined, the girl should be drowning in men and attention.

Nothing else mattered, however, when she muttered words so sweet, he could get a toothache:

 _I killed him._

Joker knew there was a reason why he kept her alive.

Instead of the sexual awakening provided abruptly by the little minx, Joker focused on her lapse of judgement. The blackmail he now possessed gave him a sizable power trip, but if he ever hoped to leave Arkham without getting beaten to a pulp, he'd need to twist Harleen's vulnerable psyche while he still had the chance.

The first step, he knew, was giving into what Harleen needed most: guidance. He had never been particularly affectionate, the thought made him gag, but it had to be done.

This was her very first kill. And through his years of wisdom, he would help her through it.

Still, curiosity took precedence.

"How did you do it?" Joker urged softly, when he had come down from Cloud Nine.

Harleen swallowed heavily, knowing that everything would become very real if she continued to admit it out loud.

"I saw that he was still breathin', on the floor. Just knocked out, ya know? But all I could think about was some other woman on top of my future husband, and I… _snapped._ "

"You had every right to be upset, Harls," Joker said calmly, trying to sweet-talk her into confessing. He patted her back. "Go on."

"So I took one of the throw pillows and I…" Harleen closed her eyes, still battling with herself. "I suffocated him. I put it over his face until his body stopped…" She shuddered. "Convulsing."

Joker licked his lips and let himself imagine it. It was homicidal music to his ears, coming from her. Such a pretty face, succumbing to rage and ending a life. What a treat.

She had started to cry again, body wracking with sobs, horrified with herself.

He stepped into action. "Do you want me to help ya, Doc?" Of course she would. "Want me to make it all…" He let his fingers dance playfully in the air. "…go _away_."

Harleen looked up with shining blue eyes and Joker felt himself get hard. Not the time, J. Later, maybe.

"Would you?" she whimpered pathetically, "I don't know what to do. I can't go to _jail._ But he's still… just layin' there in my apartment."

Joker leaned back to study her, strategizing. It felt good.

"Was there blood?" he asked darkly. Please let there be blood.

Harleen furrowed her brows, looking down. "No, I… I don't think so."

Damn.

Taking her chin in his hand, Joker forced her to look up at him. "You have two options, toots. A: chop up the bastard and throw little doggie bags of limbs into the ocean. Happy Halloween!"

Joker laughed. He was personally fond of that one. Harleen looked appalled.

He sighed at her reaction. "B: make it look like an accident."

Her eyes lit up at this idea, just a bit, her voice still shaking. "Okay. B. That one."

"Final answer?" Joker gave her a metallic grin.

Harleen, an absolute mess, let out a huff of breath and closed her eyes. "Yeah. Let's call it that."

In that moment, Joker knew there was a third answer in his demented little game show.

C: Dump the broad, take the keys, and get the hell out.

He rubbed at his neck, rolling it around, and briefly considered it. To flee or not to flee.

But said broad was weeping in his lap, essentially at his mercy, and...

It would have to wait.

* * *

With her heels in hand, Harleen stepped into Steven's office and gave him an apologetic smile. He didn't deserve all of this crazy. Then again, he signed up for it, didn't he?

"Thank you, Steven, for your cooperation," she told him gently, like a mother would, sliding the ring of keys across the desk.

He scratched at the back of his head, unable to wipe the apprehension off of his face. "No problem, ma'am," he mumbled. "But, uh…"

Harleen leaned forward with wet lashes, alarmed. "What is it?"

Steven turned his monitor around and pointed weakly to the security footage of Harleen scampering down the confinement hall and looking a little too intimate with a psychopathic clown.

She felt faint. "Steven, get rid of that," she ordered.

The boy winced and fidgeted in his seat. "I don't have an account to override the system, ma'am," he explained meekly, "I've been trying but the firewall is impossible to get over."

Despite the situation, Harleen felt her heart swell. The kid had been trying to keep them safe without even being told to. But she couldn't possibly make up some convoluted explanation for her actions, so her fear continued to grow.

How could she have been so careless?

"Are you sure there isn't _any way_ to erase that footage?" she pressed desperately, eyes glued to the screen. Is that really what she looked like from behind?

Steven shrugged quietly, adjusting his thin glasses. "It's either figure out the access code, or destroy the machine before it reaches main security. But that would be —"

Before he could finish, Harleen had lifted the computer and thrown it hard to the ground.

"Ma'am! What are you doing?!" Steven squeaked, backing away, startled.

With wild eyes, Harleen looked around until she spotted a security baton hung above the file cabinet. Bingo.

Weapon in hand, Harleen proceeded to go ape shit on the modem.

Panicking and wanting to create some distance between the psychiatrist and himself, Steven lept out of his chair to close and lock the office door. He pressed his back against it and watched the massacre unfold with big eyes.

Harleen felt a strange, tingling sensation in her palms, wielding this baton. She liked it more than she would care to admit.

A couple of minutes later, the machine was unidentifiable in its ruins, and Harleen let the baton fall to the ground. Blowing some hair out of her eyes, she smoothed out her skirt and nodded, rolling her shoulders.

"There we go. All gone." Casually, she slipped on her heels and pulled her hair into a sleek bun before approaching the door. "Thank you, Steven. You're a real sweetheart." Harleen picked up her coat and purse, kissed him on the forehead, and left.

Weary, Steven looked up at the clock. Only 10:00 AM. He let his face fall into his hands and shook his head. Why didn't he go into business like the rest of his friends?

* * *

The rest of the day seemed to move at a snail's pace for Harleen. Every tick of the clock was hammering into her skull like a dull blade, waiting for it to crack.

But rushing out of the building would have been suspicious, so she kept herself busy with writing case summaries and responding to trivial messages from Arkham's interns. Ever since she had taken on Joker, every undergraduate under the sun viewed Harleen as their own personal mentor, and it was exhausting.

Little did Harleen know, Arkham had sent all of them her way. He considered it deserved punishment for disrespecting him and his position at the asylum. Like hell would she get away with raising her voice at him, back at the infirmary.

In the lull between calls, she popped another Vicodin and went over Joker's instructions for the hundredth time in her head:

Purchase gloves. Clean up the scene. Move the body to the bathroom. Plant the empty bottle of sleeping pills. Immediately after, report his death.

The story was simple. A sad man who had fallen into the hands of suicide. With how upset Harleen would make herself look, nobody would ask why out of respect. After a few months, everything would be back to normal.

Everything would be fine.

It was half past four when Arkham entered her office, unannounced.

Jumping out of her skin, Harleen started typing away gibberish on her laptop, trying to look busy as she nudged the prescription bottle into one of the open drawers with her elbow.

She smiled and looked up. "Afternoon, Doctor Arkham."

Arkham looked at her, tight-lipped and extended his hand with his palm up.

"Oh! Yes, the progress report, sorry," Harleen rushed out, ruffling through her stack of files. He had requested an update on Joker, and _maybe_ she had fabricated some of the information, but most of it was true. True-ish.

Handing over the document, Harleen bit her lip and watched as Arkham scanned the few pages. His expression was frustratingly unreadable.

Finally, Arkham cleared his throat, nodded, and turned to leave. "Get back to work."

She let out a sigh of relief and sank back into her chair. That was much better than Harleen expected. One week down, two to go.

* * *

With her hand shaking like a leaf, Harleen found it nearly impossible to unlock her apartment door. She left scratches all over the door knob from the tip of her key and the gloves felt like anvils in her purse.

She did not want to see his body again. It would be so much easier if she woke up, right about now, from this really vivid nightmare. To have Brandon propose to her over their morning coffee, coat pocket void of slutty underwear. They would discuss baby names.

" _You were supposed to marry me!_ " Harleen had screamed that morning, pressing the pillow over his face with incredible force. His body had twitched violently as she straddled him. " _You. Ruined. Everything!_ "

Finally, she managed to operate like a normal human being and opened the door.

Swiftly locking it behind her, Harleen placed her keys on the nearby table and pulled the package of latex gloves out of her bag. She was sweating bullets.

The phone rang and she nearly pissed her pants.

Clumsily, Harleen made her way over to the landline and picked it up with trembling fingers. What if it was the police? She couldn't be somebody's bitch. She wouldn't survive.

"H-Hello?"

"Don't got time for your mother no more? I birthed you, yaknow. Why haven't you called?"

Her mom. Just her mom.

Harleen leaned heavily against the wall, staring at her bedroom door. "Sorry, Mom. Work has been nuts." Ba-dum _chh._ Joker would have been proud. Her voice wavered. "It's nothin' personal."

"Well, I ain't happy." Her mother sighed. "I miss you. Haven't seen you in weeks. There's only so many jigsaw puzzles I can do by myself. You find the corners much faster than me."

Frowning, Harleen felt a pang in her chest. That used to be their thing, before Brandon moved in.

"I know. I'm sorry, Mom. You know I miss you." But as guilty as she felt, this really wasn't the time to talk.

She had a dead body on her bedroom floor.

"Can I call you back in a few minutes?" Harleen begged, her voice choked and high. She winced, trying to cover that up. "I really have to… pee. I drank too much coffee."

Laughing loudly, her mother conceded. "Fine. Don't make a mess, crazy girl."

Harleen chuckled weakly and rubbed at her face, "Thanks. Talk to you soon." Click.

If she didn't do this soon, she was going to pass out and then they'd both look dead.

Five steps forward. Five deep breaths. Five numbers.

"Five… four… three… two…" Harleen whimpered. "One."

With her eyes closed, she pushed open the door and once she had the courage — oh.

No vase. No emptied drawer and pile of clothes. No damp blankets. No thong.

No dead boyfriend.

Just a single rose against her neatly placed pillows, and a note that read:

 _ **Nice place.**_

 _ **-J**_

* * *

 _Thank you all for your reviews, favorites, and follows. I love you all and you feed my inspiration._

 _Dedicated especially to wraysford, DonnaJossee, and xXMoonheartXx. My beautiful sweet summer children._


	7. Breaking News

"You're so careless.

How did you get so ungrateful?

You treat me like I'm a disease,

oh, and it's been killing me."

\- Circa Survive, Imaginary Enemy

 **Warning: Offensive language and mature themes.**

* * *

Steven Davies had always been a bit of a pussy.

With goofy brown hair, freckles, and a feminine face, he was just _asking_ to be bullied. It didn't matter how hard Steven tried to fit in or change himself — not a year went by without him being reminded that he was an awkward nobody, undeserving and pathetic.

Faggot, they had called him. Fairy Face, loser, freak of nature.

As the years progressed, Steven figured that his pitiful identity was a result of poor parenting. His father ran out when he was just a boy, and soon after his mother turned to hard drugs. Cocaine now and then, meth on the weekends. But it was the heroin that was slowly killing her.

Didn't matter to her, though. Whatever it took to keep that constant high.

By the age of thirteen, Steven was used to his kitchen counter being covered in used needles and tourniquets. Pills in the bathroom, bottles liquor on the coffee table. Even if he did have friends, there was no way he could invite them over with his half-dead mother sprawled out on the living room floor, mindless and unresponsive.

Her behavior was what ultimately led Steven into pursuing psychology. If he could learn how the human brain worked and processed, maybe he could fix his mom. Maybe he could help her. It was worth a try, and at this point, he'd do anything.

It was two years into Colombia University that he was offered an internship at Arkham Asylum. An unanticipated honor, at first, but it only took two short weeks for Steven to start questioning his own sanity. The place was beyond deranged.

When he was assigned to monitor Confinement, Arkham had explicitly warned him about Joker. He was not to be trusted or interacted with, or even treated like a person.

The King of Manipulation, they called him. Chuckles, loser, freak of nature.

Needless to say, Steven went out of his way to meet him. Joker was just like him, after all. Bullied. Misunderstood. Alone.

He had braced himself for the worst, to be shut down or waved off by the brooding man with silver teeth.

Instead, Joker had offered him a penny for his thoughts. He listened, he gave advice, he seemed to really _care_. Because of him, Steven had a date next week and a few jokes in his pocket to make the girl laugh.

It was great.

In a way, Joker was the father he never had. Steven knew it was irresponsible and negligent to become emotionally attached to a homicidal clown, but…

What did he have to lose?

" _Sanity, I suppose_ ," Joker told him one evening over smuggled grape soda, " _is getting people to see your way_."

" _Would you teach me?_ " Steven replied, voice hushed in admiration.

Joker raised an eyebrow, silently requesting clarification.

Steven straightened his glasses and smiled nervously. " _How to see._ "

* * *

Harleen could scream. She could drive her car straight through Arkham, take Joker by the shirt collar, and smack him into the next century.

She knew that this had been a bad idea. Taking advice from a criminal? Crying like a baby on his shoulder? What a mess. Had she learned _anything_ from their first encounter?

They were breaking several rules — several _laws,_ just to cover up…

Frantically running her hands through her hair, Harleen shook her head furiously with eyes shut tight. She couldn't call it murder. She wasn't a _murderer._ She was a grown woman with a Doctorate who had made a mistake.

Sick to her stomach, Harleen grabbed her house phone from the coffee table and punched in her work number.

"Arkham Asylum, how may I direct your call?"

"Steven Davies," she demanded, and when she was met with silence, she corrected herself hastily, "From Confinement. Steven Davies from Confinement."

The operator paused. "Sorry, we do not allow direct calls to —"

Harleen burst into tears, which wasn't hard to do. "Ma'am, I am his _mother_. His grandfather is dying and—and—" An exaggerated sob. She was impressing herself. "Please let me talk to my baby. _Please_."

Unsettled, the operator stammered, "Yes, of course, ma'am. I apologize. Please hold."

Tears rolled down Harleen's cheeks. A part of her wanted to shrivel up and die.

Meanwhile at Arkham, Steven was having a heart attack. Why was his mother calling? They hadn't spoken in weeks. Was she in the hospital?

"…Mom?" he questioned softly, concerned.

"Let me talk to Joker, Steven. Now."

Oh. Steven rubbed at his eyes, relieved. Just Dr. Quinzel.

Knowing better than to question her, he left the office and slipped the phone into Joker's cell. Interacting with his mentor had become much easier, now that the cameras were disabled.

Taking a break from his one-armed push ups, Joker wiped at his forehead with his shirt and took the phone, calm as a cucumber.

"Big J's Whore House, you got the dough, we got the hoe." He laughed at himself. Classic.

Infuriated and not even slightly amused, Harleen sneered, "Cut the crap, clown. Where is he?"

Joker plopped down onto his cot, jaw set. "I don't appreciate your tone, Doc."

"I could have done it myself," she hissed into the phone, "What did you do with him? He has a _family_. They'll want to know where he is!"

Thoroughly insulted, Joker glared at the wall and daydreamed about choking that pretty little neck again. "You should be thanking me, Harleen. My men went through a lot of trouble—"

Harleen threw her hand up, exasperated and cutting him off. "Why in the hell would I thank you? You just made my life ten times harder than it already is!"

Joker was beyond pissed. Had she not seen the rose? The note?

"Turn on the news, you ungrateful brat." His tone turned deadly. "And don't call here again with that mouth. You're forgetting who you're talking to."

Click.

Harleen screamed, chucked the phone at the wall, and sank to her knees to weep.

Her body was flooded with anxiety. What did he mean, turn on the news? To distract her from reality? Vision blurred, Harleen grabbed the remote and switched the channel from ESPN — Brandon was everywhere, still — to the local newscast.

The main headline beneath the news anchor was in big, black letters, and it made Harleen's blood run cold. Her tears stopped immediatedly.

 **BREAKING NEWS — MAN COMMITS SUICIDE BY JUMPING OFF OF EMPIRE STATE BUILDING**

According to police, an unidentified man had toppled down onto the pavement, completely _nude_ and upon closer inspection, his genitals had been cut off.

Due to the extreme graphic nature of the scene, no footage was shown, but the man was said to have curly hair, tan skin, and a tattoo of a sun on his left shoulder blade.

Silenced by this information, Harleen stood, walked into the kitchen, and took a large swig of Brandon's whiskey as the horror continued to be documented in the other room.

* * *

Steven had never seen Joker so upset.

He was pacing in his cell, seething and incandescent, grills bared. His eyes were like fire.

"How dare she speak to me that way!" Joker bellowed, voice bouncing off of the walls. His hands itched, his blood boiled. He wanted to kill. He wanted to destroy something beautiful.

Sensing this, Steven stayed on the other side of the door and watched Joker vent with sorrowful eyes. He played with the sleeves of his sweater. "What…What did she say?"

Joker kicked over his cot, making the younger man flinch. "It doesn't matter," he shot back, bare chest heaving. "The guards were right. She is a bitch. I shouldn't have helped her at all."

Steven found himself getting angry as well. "She doesn't deserve your kindness, sir."

This soothed Joker slightly. "You're right. Should have killed her while I had the chance. I bet she would have bled perfectly in my hands. "

Not exactly what Steven was going for, but he nodded mutely in support. "I bet."

Kicking his cot over to its original position, Joker rolled his neck and laid down, grumbling to himself after a moment of deep breathing. "One day you're the best thing since sliced bread. The next, you're toast."

He laughed, slapping his knee. Good one.

Steven took this opportunity to recall something Joker had told him the week before. "If you can smile when things go wrong, you have someone in mind to blame. Right, sir?"

This made Joker grin, and Steven could almost cry.

"Very good, kid. Very good."

* * *

Harleen wanted nothing more than to forget all about Joker. To forget about his stupid laugh, and his stupid smile, and his stupid tattoos. She had dreamt about it, even, being blissfully unaware of his existence and carrying on through life without the burden of a psychotic criminal.

It wasn't until the day after that she realized that Joker's men had found out where she lived, broke in, and had access to all of her personal belongings. She had never once mentioned to Joker where her apartment was.

It terrified her. What else was he able to dig up, within the span of ten hours? How many people worked for him, inside Arkham? Had he known this all along?

She had half the mind to burn the stupid rose Joker left her. But instead, it lay untouched on Harleen's nightstand, a quiet reminder of his disruption. Maybe she subconsciously wanted to watch it wither and die.

The phone calls she had to make after Brandon's death were dreadful. First to her mother, who didn't habitually watch the news and was completely oblivious. Still traumatized, Harleen blubbered away through her explanation. Her mother cried, too.

Brandon's parents were a trip. They drilled her, screamed at her, cursed her out. They asked Harleen why their little boy would ever consider taking his own life, let alone mutilate his own body. The blame had fallen onto her completely, and Harleen didn't know whether to apologize or be furious.

She settled for quiet remorse and offered to pay for his funeral.

When it came to the mess Harleen buried in, being contacted by the Gotham City Police Department was the cherry on top. Multiple questionings, tiring interviews. Even a spot on the evening news that featured her tearful reaction to her boyfriend's gruesome death.

" _How did it feel, when you found out about Brandon?" One reporter asked brusquely. Microphones from several different stations were shoved in her face._

 _Trying to cry as elegantly as she could on camera, Harleen dabbed at her eyes. "I saw it being covered on the news, and… I felt like my world had stopped."_

" _Did you see it coming?" Another reported shouted at her, over the shuffling of equipment._

 _Harleen sniffled pitifully and gave them her prepared response, weakly shaking her head. "Not at all. He — He was my sunshine."_

Gag. Not even close. Filthy animal.

Weirdly enough, Arkham wasn't completely heartless and allowed Harleen to take the week off. Despite all of the unwanted attention and funeral costs, the break from work helped clear her mind.

It wasn't the first time Harleen had considered leaving Arkham Asylum and moving far away. She now fully understood why every other therapist had fled after Joker toyed with their minds. And she didn't blame them one bit.

* * *

The next time Harleen saw Joker, he was visibly irate and cast-less. Instead, a make-shift brace was holding his injured arm together, and it allowed him to clench both fists when she came into sight.

He was back in his glass cell. After all, it was therapy time. Yippee.

"Hello, Mr. Joker," Harleen greeted him blandly as she sat, flipping through his file. She didn't give him the chance to speak. "We have a lot to accomplish today. I would like to start off with a brief summary of your family history."

Joker couldn't believe her audacity and regarded her bitterly. "Where have you been, Harleen? Don't tell me you _miss_ the guy."

She wasn't in the mood to play games. "Any history of serious illnesses, mental or physical?"

Slicking back his hair, Joker shook his head in disbelief. "You are such a pain in the ass, Doc."

Harleen's grip around her pen tightened. Two minutes with this man and she already wanted to snap. She avoided looking at him all together. "I _said,_ any history of—"

"You really need to work on your television personality," Joker jeered, stepping closer to the glass. He mimicked her voice, Brooklyn and high-pitched. It reminded Harleen of their first encounter. " _I felt like my world had stopped. He was my sunshine._ Yuck. What an amateur. You're lucky they didn't arrest you on the spot."

Enraged, Harleen shot a hard look at Steven who was seated not too far away. The boy cringed. Of course he had shown Joker the footage.

"Do you _enjoy_ being his puppet?" she snapped at him.

Where did all of this anger come from? She used to be so passive.

Steven puffed out his chest, but it didn't really enhance his masculinity. "I'm not anyone's puppet, ma'am. I am my own person. So — so —! " He grunted and gave her his best glare. "Loosen up, tight ass!"

Joker abruptly lost his shit laughing and fell to the floor. Steven crossed his arms over his chest, proud of himself.

Wildly taken aback, Harleen felt her face burn and she bristled in her seat before turning to the hysterical clown. "He used to be a nice young man, asshole! You're _corrupting_ him."

Looking up from the floor, Joker licked his grill and shook his head slowly, still cackling. "No, Doc. Can't you tell? He can _see_ now."

The elevator beside them dinged and three sets of eyes shifted to it.

Enter Intern Douchebag, all dolled up in security gear. Harleen deflated. He flashed her a disgusting smile. "Hey there, hotness."

* * *

 _YDOM has officially reached over 100 favorites! I couldn't be happier. Thank you all so much for your reviews and follows. I adore each and every one of you. Will update soon (much sooner)._


	8. Lock Down

"I'm devoted to destruction.

A full dosage of detrimental disfunction."

\- Lil Wayne, Sucker For Pain

* * *

There was a certain amount of skill required to look like a dirty rat and act like one too, but Intern Griggs had it covered.

Harleen couldn't decide which part of him repulsed her the most. His greasy, matted hair? His gnarly mustache? How he reeked of cheap aftershave and tobacco? Even from across the cellblock, she could smell him. His presence alone made her feel queasy.

Much to her displeasure, Griggs had eyes for Harleen since day one at Arkham Asylum. His main hobbies around the office included smacking her ass, cat-calling, and attempting to ask her out for dinner. She had reported his behavior to Arkham immediately, repulsed by the harassment, but he shrugged off the complaint. Boys will be boys, he said.

A coworker soon clued her in that Griggs was Arkham's nephew. Figures.

At the sight of him, Steven had bolted to the opposite elevator. Joker rolled his eyes and stood, disappointed. They were making such progress.

"Can this wait? I'm in the middle of a session," Harleen hissed at him. Being hit on during her break was one thing, but in front of a patient? Her relationship with Joker may be unconventional, but she refused to be humiliated in front of him.

"Little birdie told me cameras were down," he explained, giving her a wide grin. "Got sent up here to protect you. Keep an eye on things." His voice dipped. "On you."

God, was that spinach in his teeth? His eyes travelled over her figure lecherously, and Harleen pulled the hem of her skirt further over her knees. It made him snicker.

"Joker is in his cell and cannot touch me," she retorted, frustrated. "I don't need to be babysat."

Humored, Joker punched the glass abruptly, making Griggs jump back. Harleen was used to his spontaneity and hardly flinched.

"Little jumpy, huh?" He gave him a slow, unnerving grin.

"Did I say you could speak, inmate?" Griggs barked in embarrassment, stepping close to the glass. Joker lifted his now bruising, inked hand and laughed behind the tattooed grin.

Fed up with how her afternoon was going, Harleen stood defensively. "He isn't an inmate, you idiot. He's a sick man. A patient." She put herself between the two men and placed a hand on Griggs's armored chest, shoving him back. " _My_ patient."

Something inside Joker swelled at her words. Grossed out, he dropped his hand and turned away.

Before Griggs could reply, a deep voice crackled from the walkie strapped to his shoulder.

"Code 10-13. This is not a drill. Initiate lockdown."

Scowling, he lifted the speaker to his mouth. "Copy that."

Harleen narrowed her eyes at him. "What does that mean, 10-13? What's going on?"

"Weather advisory. Tornado." His beady eyes locked with hers and he cupped her cheek with one of his grubby hands. "Nothin' for you to worry about, sweet thing. I'll be right back."

Equal parts bewildered and disgusted, Harleen watched Griggs jog back to the elevator.

Once the doors slid shut, the light above it turned red before powering down completely.

Shit.

"Oh God," Harleen groaned and sprinted to it, desperately clicking the down button and getting no response. Panicked, she pounded her fists on the metal barrier. "Let me out!"

A siren whirred from the floor below. She wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

An hour later, Harleen was barefoot and laying on the cold floor of the confinement hall. She stared up at the ceiling and firmly shook her head. "No."

Joker, also laying on his back, was parallel to Harleen on the other side of the glass. "C'mon… Not even an teensy-weensy cartwheel for good ol' Mr. J?"

She rubbed at her eyes. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't in this skirt. Stop asking."

He grinned slyly and turned his head. "You could take it off."

Patience running thin, Harleen picked up one of her heels and chucked it at the glass. Joker laughed and she grumbled, closing her eyes. "You're giving me a headache. You always do."

With a psychopathic clown as her only companion, sixty minutes felt like sixty days.

Joker scratched at his chin lazily, contemplating his next move. This impromptu slumber party had a lot of potential. "I'll make you a deal, Harls."

Brooding, Harleen remained silent and ignored him. She was starving and wanted to go home.

"Give me a somersault… and I'll tell you about my parents."

Her eyes shot open. Was he being serious?

Cautiously, Harleen turned to look at him. He really did have a fascinating face up close. "You mean that?"

Joker gave her a wink and she felt herself blush. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Looking away, Harleen bit her lip and mulled it over. Just a little tumble in exchange for pertinent information. Knowing Joker, she might not get this chance again.

After a minute, he coaxed, "I'm a man of my word, Doc."

The situation made Joker's body hum with mirth. Not only would he be able to convince the girl that he didn't belong here, but he'd get a nice glimpse of those legs. A step towards breaking out and something to whack off to later. He was a genius.

Giving in, Harleen let out a sigh and sat up. "Fine, okay. Sounds fair."

Joker pushed himself up into a sitting position and watched her take a few steps back. A wild kind of fantasy gripped at his brain, vivid and neon. With that lithe little body, she would look so _good_ on his dance floor.

In a cage. Those hips.

Stretching, Harleen took off her blazer — earning her a wolf whistle — and rolled her shoulders back. She took two deep breaths, steadied herself, and proceeded to do two, fluid backwards cartwheels. An effortless flip at the end was the cherry on top.

And it felt good. Really good. She shook out her hair and quickly pulled her skirt back down.

"There you go," Harleen said breathily, turning to address Joker. "Now you."

Swallowing thickly, Joker tried to compose himself. He was not expecting such a show. She was so _flexible._

The neon fantasy ran rampant in his mind.

Slicking back his hair, Joker gave her a dark grin. "Impressive, Doc. Ten out of ten."

Unexpectedly flattered, Harleen averted her gaze shyly and sat back down, folding her legs underneath her.

Joker threaded his fingers together and hummed to himself. "Where to begin… Where to begin…"

Blue eyes shot up, shocked and hungry with curiosity. He was actually going to open up.

"My mother was a gentle woman. Quick-witted, too. And boy, was she graceful. Everything she did, every move she made — effortless. Like a ballerina."

His voice was deep and faraway. Afraid of breaking the spell, Harleen bit her tongue.

"That's what I remember, anyway," Joker continued somberly, "She passed when I was a boy. Pneumonia."

A sharp stab to Harleen's heart. "I'm so sorry," she murmured.

He shrugged and leaned sideways against the glass, trying to look vulnerable. "Dad grew bitter after her death. Took to drinking. Didn't want any part of me." Joker gave her a solemn glance. "I looked much like her, you see."

Harleen nodded quietly, brow furrowed in sympathy. She should be writing this all down. This brief look into his childhood was positively groundbreaking, but it felt private, too.

Joker let his gaze fall to his lap and held back a laugh. This was all so easy. "I tried everything I could to make him happy. Excelled in school, kept the house clean. Even got myself a job as a paperboy." He chuckled quietly in mock nostalgia. He deserved an Academy Award. "All I wanted to do was make him smile."

Wishing she could reach out and touch him, Harleen shifted forward carefully. "Did he change?"

"I suppose you could say that," Joker looked up to the ceiling, giving her a dramatic pause, and then — "He began to beat me."

Harleen's heart shattered. She let out a soft gasp and covered her mouth.

"Don't be sad, Doc," Joker soothed her, giving her a sad smile. The anguished look on her face was delicious. "It was a long time ago."

Eyes stinging with unshed tears, Harleen lifted her hand to press it flat against the glass. The poor man. He really _was_ damaged. "Mr. J…" She was speechless.

Slowly, Joker lifted his hand and pressed it to the glass as well, covering Harleen's delicate fingers. A tear rolled down her pretty little cheek.

Hook, line, and sinker.

* * *

The storm raged onward into the night, but the thundering Gotham sky wasn't enough to lull Joker to sleep. It was still too damn quiet. Maybe Steven could sneak in some of those tasty blue pills.

Harleen, on the other hand, was fast asleep by midnight. Using her blazer as a makeshift pillow, she curled up against the glass beside him. It was nearing three in the morning when Joker looked over, observing the blonde.

With all of that nerve, that valor, that backbone — Harleen had fallen for his sob story. She was starting to surrender. Smug, he entertained the thought that he was the first to truly sway her.

Distracted, Joker accidentally brushed his hand against the house of cards he was working on and watched it collapse. Frowning, he grumbled. "Rats." This place was so _boring._

Harleen stirred in her sleep and rolled onto her back, exposing the creamy expanse of her clavicle. Good Lord. Those parted, pink lips and that smooth, perfect neck — !

Joker grimaced and ran a hand over his face in aggravation.

That disgusting, squeezing feeling in his chest had returned. It made him want to drink bleach.

Joker started to remake the house into something more stable, but paused his ministrations at the whimper escaping Harleen. He raised an eyebrow and watched as her face scrunched in distress. She whined again, pitiful and long. A nightmare. Great.

Annoyed, Joker sighed and rapped his knuckles on the glass in hopes to wake her. "Wake up, Doc. You're creepin' me out." She began to pant raggedly in her sleep. Ugh. He knocked on the barrier again, this time hard and with purpose. "Har _leen._ "

Waking with a start, Harleen took in her surroundings and rubbed at her eyes, mumbling and disoriented. "Yeesh…"

Her presence was starting to cramp his style. How long was this lockdown going to last? Couldn't she go someplace else?

"Go back to sleep," Joker grunted dryly, looking away. "There's no monsters under your bed."

"I keep killin' him. Every damn night, I dream it." Harleen's fists clenched. "Will they stop, Mr. J?" She turned her head towards him sleepily, blue eyes searching. "These stupid dreams?"

A slow, silver smile spread over Joker's lips. "No," he admitted lowly, "They never do."

Harleen turned away from him. Was she pouting? What a child. "Not the answer I was looking for."

"Honesty is the quickest way to prevent a mistake from turning into a failure," Joker spoke slowly, deliberately. A pause. "Then again, it wasn't a mistake. Was it?"

She stiffened, regretting her confession. "Of course it was. I'm no murderer."

"How did it feel?" Joker asked her with sudden interest, "How did it feel when he _died_?"

"I'm don't want to talk about this."

"Yes, you do." He purred, licking his lips, "Answer me."

Battling with herself, Harleen was silent for a long time. Then she spoke, barely a whisper, "Good. It felt good."

Joker's eyes roamed over her frame in fascination, voice dropping. "Yeah?"

A soft, defeated breath. "Yeah."

* * *

 _Thank you so much for reading. Your reviews mean the world, as do your follows and favorites. Chapter dedicated to Moosmutzel10 for being a sweetheart. Will update soon._


	9. Merry Go 'Round

"You were a vision in the morning

when the light came through.

I know I've only felt religion

when I've lied with you."

\- Halsey, Colors

* * *

"Is this your card?"

Of course it was. The damn nine of hearts.

Harleen put on her best poker face and raised an eyebrow, shaking her head. "No."

Incredulous, Joker looked from the card in his hand, then back up to her. "What do you mean, no?"

They were back to sitting across from each other again, on the floor and bored out of their minds.

She gave him a little shrug and tried not to break. His face was priceless. "Not even close."

Running a hand through his mussed green hair in frustration, Joker searched through his cards, brow dipped. "I've done this one a million times," he grumbled to himself.

A giggle bubbled in Harleen's throat at his reaction and she had to cover her mouth to disguise it as a cough.

But it didn't go unnoticed. Frowning, Joker peered up at his doctor with a dark glare, unamused. "Go away. I don't want you here anymore."

Openly laughing now, Harleen pulled her hair up into a ponytail and glanced at the elevator. The light above it was still out. "I'm kinda stuck here, J. Where do ya expect me to go?"

Shoving the playing cards angrily into the box, Joker sneered and stood up. "Sit in the corner. You're in time out."

According to her wristwatch, it was nearly nine o'clock. The storm had to be over by now. What was taking so long?

Rubbing at her sore neck, Harleen sighed and gave Joker an odd look when he moved to take off his shirt. "What are ya doing?" she asked, uneasy.

Despite herself and all that she stood for, Harleen couldn't look away. Beneath the alabaster skin and sinister tattoos were a _lot_ of toned muscles. Simply put, he was positively ripped.

Joker smirked at her and slowly dropped to his knees. "My morning workout, toots. Do you mind?"

Neck and face flaring with heat, Harleen averted her gaze when he started a set of push-ups. When did she turn into a schoolgirl with no self-restraint? She needed sleep. And a Vicodin.

He snickered to himself. Suits her right. Nobody, not even the mighty Doctor Harleen Quinzel with her stupid blue eyes and lab coat, was allowed to one-up him. On anything. It went against his very nature.

Pausing, Joker flicked some hair from his eyes and decided to have some fun. "Hey, Doc."

She was busying herself with her briefcase, tight-lipped and embarrassed. "Hm?"

"Would you count for me?"

Struggling to remain passive, Harleen cleared her throat and refused to look at him. She knew what he was doing. "What, ya forgot _how_?"

"It'd help me concentrate." His voice dropped. Gravelly. Tempting her. "Pretty please?"

Feeling herself begin to sweat, Harleen worked her jaw. "Stop it, Joker."

Joker rolled over and leaned back on his palms, tickled by her response. He had riled her up so quickly. "Stop what, Harleen?"

The unsteady rise and fall of her chest was mouthwatering. Oh, how he'd love to bend her ass over that chair and —

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a bone-tired Jeremiah Arkham and Harleen sagged in relief.

"Oh thank god," she all but moaned, shakily pushing herself up onto her feet. "I was starting to think you had forgotten about me."

Stepping into the corridor, Arkham made a face at their states of undress. Harleen, without her shoes and jacket — was her skirt twisted backwards? — and Joker, completely shirtless on the floor of his cell, looking like he had a big secret.

If there wasn't the glass barrier, he'd have to ask them to explain themselves.

"Storm ended hours ago," Arkham told her in that deep grumble of his, "But lightning struck nearby. Shorted out the phone lines and elevator circuits. Idiots in electrical took forever to fix it."

Stepping into her heels, Harleen began to daydream about a cup of hot coffee. And breakfast. And her bed. In that order. "If it's okay with you, sir, I'd like to go home to freshen up. I hardly slept."

Joker rolled his eyes at her and shrugged on his shirt. The bitch slept like a damn rock. Snored, too. And she was hiding her accent again. Interesting.

"Fine," Arkham brushed her off, upset that he wasn't able to do the same. "But be back before noon. We have new residents and I'm handing some over to you."

Harleen, who had been putting on her jacket, stopped short. Her jaw fell slack. "Wait, does that mean —"

"You're hired in, Quinzel. After a full night with Giggles, you deserve that much."

Delirious, Harleen squealed and wrapped her arms around the man in a tight embrace. "You won't regret it," she assured him as he winced, "Thank you _so_ much."

"Great, okay, good. Now go home." Arkham pried her off of him and shook his head as she skipped to the elevator.

Right before the doors shut, Harleen looked over to Joker and waved, mouthing, "Bye!"

Once she was gone, Joker pressed two fingers to his temple and shot himself in the head with an invisible gun. "Bang."

Exhausted, Arkham couldn't help but chuckle at him, a great feat. He never laughed. "Me too, bub. Me too."

* * *

A sizable cup of coffee and a long shower later, Harleen felt much better and decided to spend her last couple of hours lounging in bed. Soft, cotton shorts and no bra was heaven on Earth.

She had done it. She was a certified psychiatrist at The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane — and all it had taken was nine stitches, an unforeseen murder, and a night alone with a psychopathic gangster clown. Easy enough.

Harleen knew it was unorthodox to be happy. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the slight concussion that Joker gave her three weeks ago, but she couldn't stop smiling as she changed her occupation status on Facebook.

Her internship and part-time hire at Arkham had been kept secret from everyone but her mother and Brandon, so her phone promptly blew up at the update.

Caroline, a close friend from university and fellow psychology major, was the first to call. "No. Way."

Buzzing with excitement, Harleen rolled over onto her stomach and squeaked. "Uh-huh! Can you believe it?"

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? Lucky bitch!" Caroline laughed, anything but bitter.

Harleen twirled a lock of hair around her finger and grinned. "I didn't want to jinx anything, ya know?"

"Ugh, I hate you. How was training? Tell me everything."

Over the next ten minutes, Harleen gushed about her experience. Everything from getting her first lab coat and ID, to Griggs and his dorito fingers. But she managed to sidestep around her main patient. "You know I'd tell you more, but confidentiality…"

Caroline scoffed. "Confidentiality my ass. Seriously, who do you think I'd tell, my mother? I won't say anything."

Wary, Harleen fiddled with her pillow case. If only Caroline knew what it had been last used for. "You swear? It's kind of…heavy."

"Pinky promise."

"Those don't work over the phone," Harleen teased, stalling.

A dramatic groan. "God, okay, I swear." Silence. "Harleen, I will come over there and smack it out of you."

"He's very —" Harleen paused, not knowing where to begin. She glanced over to the rose on her dresser. It was in water, now. "Vexing."

Caroline was hushed with interest. "How so?"

"You know that prank where you find a sleeping person, put shaving cream in their hand, and tickle their nose with a feather? So they get it all over their face?" Harleen glared at the wall. "That's him. But instead of cream, it's probably blood."

"Who does he work for? Maroni? Falcone?" Caroline was frenzied as she listed off Gotham's biggest mobsters.

Harleen scrunched her nose. "Self-employed. I can't see him working _for_ anybody."

"What's he look like?"

She thought back briefly to Joker's bare chest and blanched, stammering, "Uh, you know. Average guy. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Caroline pouted. "Seriously, that's all you got? I'm trying to live vicariously through you."

Worrying her lip between her teeth, Harleen hesitated. "Um. He's decently pale, I guess. Grey eyes." She mumbled the rest. "Green hair."

Glass shattered on the other line. "You're with The _Joker_?" Caroline screamed into the phone. "Harleen! What the hell!"

Not knowing if her friend was in public or alone, Harleen quickly shushed her, "Christ on a bike, Carol, the whole world doesn't need to know!"

"How are you not _dead?_ "

"I have no idea."

Breaking several rules, Harleen eventually confessed. How he had strangled her, how he had manipulated Steven. The way he could stare at somebody from across the room and make them crap their pants in fear.

But she couldn't find it in herself to talk about Joker's parents. That was their moment, for her ears only.

"Damn, Quinzel," Caroline laughed weakly, taking it all in. Then, mischievously, "You know what this calls for?"

Harleen shook her head immediately. "Carol—"

"We're going out tonight. And I'm getting you drunk."

* * *

It took only two glasses of champagne for Harleen to feel loose and wonderful. She never viewed being a lightweight as necessarily bad. For some people, it took a lot of cash to get buzzed. For her? Hardly anything.

Squeezed into a short, black dress, Harleen smiled coquettishly at one of the bartenders and watched Caroline grind against some guy on the dance floor. She was tan with long, black hair, and drove men wild with her big brown eyes.

Harleen didn't mind hanging back. She had never been to Smile and Grin, after all, and wanted to take it all in while she could.

How Caroline had even found the place baffled her. It was tucked away in the outskirts of Gotham, disguised behind crumbling brick at the end of an ominous backstreet. Entrance required a password, even — _merry go 'round_ — as well as a firm pat-down from the hulking bouncers. As they entered, three men were getting thrown out, faces beaten and suits stained with blood.

Was this some sort of uppity boxing match? What was Caroline getting her into?

But Smile and Grin was nothing short of magnificent. The nightclub was dripping in diamonds and dim lighting. Fine leathered booths, extravagant wall pieces. Tuxedos everywhere. In her simple curls and mini-dress, Harleen felt incredibly underdressed. She had expected some dive-bar with a rickety jukebox, and this joint… was anything but.

Despite being harshly frisked moments prior, Caroline and Harleen were kindly ushered inside by lavishly dressed attendees who kissed their knuckles and showered them with compliments. For pretty faces like theirs, one of them cooed, drinks were on the house.

Little did Harleen know, when their first bottle of expensive champagne was being set in front of them, her cell phone at home was exploding with calls from Arkham himself.

It didn't take long to notice that the upper section was for VIP personnel only. Each booth was closed off with glittering, golden beads and had guards stationed at each entrance. Everything was so luxurious and grand. The owner had to be a millionaire.

Caroline soon padded over in her scarlet outfit and plopped down beside her. "Isn't this fantastic?" she breathed, high on life. Immediately, a footman placed another flute of champagne in front of her, to which she graciously accepted.

Flustered and tipsy, Harleen giggled. "I feel like I'm dreaming." She took a long sip from her own glass and hiccuped. "Seriously, did you roofie me, or somethin'?"

Eighteen missed calls, back at home.

Taking Harleen's hand in her own, Caroline leaned forward and beamed. "Congratulations, Harl." Downing her flute in one fluid gulp, she pulled the blonde up out of her seat. "Come dance with me."

Too inebriated to decline, Harleen let herself be led to the center of the night club and laughed as Caroline took her hips. The gentlemen nearby whistled in appreciation as they danced against each other to the booming, hypnotic bass.

If they kept this up, they'd be getting free drinks all night. Just like college.

With fair skin flushed and ruby lips tugged up into a playful smile, Harleen was turning around to press her backside against Caroline when she saw it.

From the elevated floor, two armored, brawny guards were flanking a man in a sharp purple suit. They led him into the largest of the VIP booths, and she could have sworn that she saw a flash of neon green slip behind the beaded curtains.

Blinking rapidly, Harleen stopped dancing altogether, swaying only from the alcohol in her system and from Caroline's hands on her waist.

Noticing this, Caroline tipped her head to speak into Harleen's ear, concerned and slurring. "You okay, girl? Gotta throw up?"

Harleen stared the booth for a moment longer before shaking her head and turning back around. Work was getting to her. She was seeing things. "Nuh-uh. I think… I think I need another drink."

She was hallucinating him. She had to be. There was no way, it was absolutely impossible —

But then that laugh, _his_ resonating, unmistakable laugh, echoed dangerously above Harleen and swallowed her whole.

"Ha… ha… _ha…_!"

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. I love you all. Reviews are always welcomed and adored. Will update soon._


	10. Don't Be Nervous

"You keep on talking,

and it makes no sense at all.

You try to fake it,

but you're breaking every rule."

\- Nero, Guilt

* * *

Harleen Quinzel couldn't catch a damn break.

Twenty-four hours ago, she was doing literal backflips for Joker in exchange for his childhood, and now — _now_ they were inside the same nightclub, where he sat unrestrained, probably plotting her death over strippers and whiskey.

Would there be henchmen in circus makeup waiting for her to come home? Would they throw her off the Empire State Building, too?

Sobering quickly, Harleen wrapped her hand around Caroline's wrist and pulled her off the dance floor.

"We can't stay here," she breathed, clumsily tugging her friend through the crowd of sweaty, dancing bodies. "This is bad. This is really bad."

Disoriented and still very drunk, Caroline tripped a little and lost one of her heels. "What's goin' on? I don't wanna go yet," she whined childishly, black hair mussed and falling in front of her eyes.

"He's here," Harleen told her urgently, stopping and looking around for the door, "Caroline, he's here, we need to _go_."

"What?" Caroline squinted at her, leaning on a nearby chair to steady herself. "Who's here? I can't hear you."

"Joker!" Harleen shrieked at her over the music, hysterical, "I just saw him, he's up there!" Her eyes darted back up to the beaded curtains as she rambled. "I heard him _laughing_ — oh god, he's going to kill me! We can't be here!"

Before Harleen could dash away again, Caroline giggled and stopped her. "Oh my god, _sweetie_. Arkham is really getting into that pretty little head of yours." She tapped Harleen's forehead with a manicured nail and smiled. "Just relax, okay? The clown is all locked up. I got you, Harleen."

Feeling faint, Harleen looked around them with frantic eyes. Had she really been imagining him? Was she already that drunk?

Then, gruff and suddenly behind her, "Hey, blondie!"

Jumping out of her skin, Harleen whipped around and was met with a tall, bearded man wearing tinted sunglasses and a hard frown. His golden cufflinks reflecting off of the chandeliers looked like they cost more than her car.

Taking a step forward, he looked her up and down with dark brows furrowed. "What did she just say your name was?"

Harleen felt her body grow cold with dread and fell mute, trembling beneath his stare.

Cursing under his breath, the man grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly towards the staircase. "You're coming with me."

Caroline immediately stumbled after them, shouting, "Hey! Let go of my friend!" Before she could reach them, two men in suits grabbed her from behind, making her kick and scream in protest. "Ugh! Get off me, you uppity fucks!"

Harleen watched in terror as her friend was dragged away and began to panic, struggling in the man's tight grip as she begged, "Don't, please! I'm sorry! Please let me go!"

Grunting, the man pulled her swiftly in front of him, and she felt cool metal press into the bare skin of her back. The small pistol dug hard into the center of her spine, bruising her.

"I suggest you keep walking," he growled at her. She could feel his beard scratch against the back of her neck.

Heart hammering in her chest, Harleen let out a soft, defeated sob and nodded, allowing herself to be led up to the row of secluded booths. Each step felt like a year off of her life. Each breath, a decade.

This was it. She was going to die tonight. She was going to fucking die.

Lines of cocaine were being snorted in the first booth. Mostly off of the bare breasts of women, accompanied by high-pitched giggles and uproarious laughter.

The second booth housed a few older, Italian men playing poker in clouds of their own cigar smoke, cursing like sailors and holding strippers on their laps.

Two men in black suits, openly carrying individual semi-automatic weapons were guarding the third booth, and Harleen knew that was where to stop. They looked down at her briefly, uninterested, before going back to keeping watch over the club and immediate area.

Quietly, the bearded man pulled back some of the beaded curtain. "Boss, you got a moment?"

"I've got nothin' but moments for you, Jonny-boy." It was teasing, deliberate, and one hundred percent Joker.

Harleen hiccuped on a cry and felt tears roll hot over her cheeks.

Joker's guards promptly stepped aside and the bearded man — Jonny — pushed her past the threshold of hell with his pistol.

It was astonishing how different Joker looked now that he was no longer Patient 0801.

Instead of the dirty asylum uniform and rusty handcuffs, he was in fitted magenta pants and a crisp white tuxedo shirt, half-open and exposing his tattooed chest. Several golden chains hung around his neck, but they didn't compare to the Rolex on his wrist or the large rings on his fingers — rubies, sapphires, skulls — Harleen became instantly aware that Joker wasn't visiting Smile and Grin.

He _owned_ Smile and Grin.

And there in his booth he lounged like a King, legs spread wide, one arm lazily draped over the top of the leather couch. In his other hand was a long, purple cane, the handle flooded with diamonds, and over his shoulders were leather gun holsters.

Mirrors, everywhere, to make the space seem much larger than it was.

Upon glancing up at the distressed Harleen, Joker slowly exhaled thick smoke from the joint he was holding and had to blink a few times before smiling _madly._

"Hellllllo, _nurse_ ," he drawled, keeping his keen eyes on her as he set his blunt down on a nearby ashtray.

"Found blondie downstairs," Jonny told him smugly, putting away his pistol. "The one that got away."

Joker slowly got to his feet, making Harleen's heart jump, and began to circle her like a hawk. "Oh, but this couldn't be _my_ doctor," he replied, sweeping some of her blonde waves off of her neck. His touch was very gentle and it scared her. "Because my doctor wouldn't be strutting around in a little black number like this." He stopped in front of her, bending slightly to her eye level. "Isn't that right?"

Not wanting to anger him, Harleen gave him a small, mortified nod and looked to her feet. Joker bared his capped teeth in a grin and lifted a hand to swipe away a falling tear with his thumb. She flinched hard and he cackled.

"No, no… you've got it all wrong, Jonny-boy," Joker tsked.

Jonny's back went rigid and he replied quickly, "Her friend called her Harleen, boss. It has to be her."

Harleen heard somebody cough quietly beside her, and she gasped, looking over to see two well-dressed men nursing glasses of beer on the opposite couch.

Joker's hand shot up and grabbed Harleen's chin, forcing her to look up at him. His rings were cold against her jaw. "No. This here…" He ran his tongue over the top row of his teeth, cherishing this awaited moment, "Is my _harlequin_." Grey, teasing eyes darted briefly to Jonny. "Close, but no cigar."

Catching his drift, Jonny bowed his head and smirked over Harleen's shoulder. "I apologize, Boss."

"You see, boys," Joker let go of her chin and ran his palm over the side of his slicked green hair, addressing the two men, "I've just returned from my winter… _excursion._ I vacation from time to time." He laughed and they politely followed suit. "And now that I'm back, I have some business to attend to."

Harleen felt herself begin to cry again.

"Shh, shh…" Joker dragged his middle finger over her trembling lower lip. "Don't be nervous. I've heard… marvelous things, about you." Casually, he looked over to the men again. "A new dancer. From… Brooklyn, mm?" Grey eyes flicked back to her.

Humiliated by his lie, Harleen clenched her fists and looked away. This earned her a light smack to her cheek, just enough to sting. Taking in a tremulous breath, she slowly looked back up, submitting. "That's right, Mistah J."

Basking in the glory of her response, Joker rolled his jaw and let out a ragged breath, sitting back down. "Good girl…"

For some godforsaken reason, Harleen preened at his approval. She immediately hated herself for it and wanted to bolt, but there were a whole lot of guns in this nightclub. She wouldn't stand a chance.

Joker flicked his chin at Jonny, signaling him to raise the volume of the speaker beside him. Sensual, thumping bass filled their area and Harleen could feel it in her toes.

Leaning back, Joker patted his lap and gave her a silver smirk, bathing himself in her torture. "Okay, little girl. Show me what you've got."

Harleen closed her eyes tight, chest and face pink with shame, and centered herself. Maybe if she let herself be toyed with, she would be allowed to leave unharmed.

To see another day. To see her mother again.

Gripping tightly onto her will to live, she opened her eyes and made her way over to the Clown Prince of Gotham. He stopped her, though, looking mildly unimpressed as he gestured to her dress.

"Off."

At that command, Harleen openly glared and began to shake her head — but his hand moved to the gun in his holster, a silent warning. He shook his head instead.

Again, this time deep and serious: " _Off_."

Face burning, Harleen praised herself for choosing to match her panties and bra tonight — both a sheer, red lace — and pulled her dress off over her head. She had never been so mortified, standing in her underwear with four men watching.

Grey eyes raked greedily over the swell of her breasts, the flat expanse of her stomach, her narrow hips — all of this new unblemished _skin._ Unprofessional and selfish, Joker let out a groan of appreciation and beckoned her forward, spreading his legs.

"Come to Daddy…"

Setting her jaw, Harleen reminded herself relentlessly that she didn't want to die in a back alley strip club and straddled Joker's lap, forcing herself to move her hips timidly to the song playing.

 _Sometimes I don't know where we're going,_

 _Sometimes I feel you should be crawling back to me._

But it wasn't hard to be graceful with years of gymnastics. Wanting to get her punishment over with, Harleen gave into the music and danced fluidly against Joker's body, closing her eyes and pretending she was alone. Cold hands curved around her hips a minute later, making her breath hitch. Cautiously, Harleen looked down to see Joker caught in a trance, lost in her body, jaw unhinged.

 _Time is ticking by without us knowing,_

 _before you know it, it'll be too late to see._

Confidence surged through her veins, nearly jolting her, and she dared to step off of his lap to drop down low to the floor, catching his gaze as she rolled her body back up. The awe in his eyes felt so _good._

 _Right from the start, you always made me feel a fool._

 _The guilt you hide will come between us after all._

Harleen was a bookworm with a PhD in Psychology and a minor in watching Netflix. And here she was, grinding like a tramp on a psychopathic clown. What was going on with her?

Fortunately for her, the song came to a close and Harleen immediately moved away, snatching her dress from the floor. Slipping it back on, Jonny and the two strangers averted their eyes and coughed, shifting uncomfortably in a way that made Harleen want to gag. And smile. Her body couldn't decide which way to sway.

Clearing his throat, Joker smoothed out his dress pants and ran a shaking hand through his hair, rolling his neck and cracking it.

"Leave," he ordered suddenly in a rasp, licking his lips. Before Harleen could react, he gave her a sharp glare. "Not you. _Them._ "

Knowing better than to disobey, Jonny and the others promptly ducked out of the booth without another word.

Now all alone in this private box of luxury and twinkling lights, Joker rolled up his sleeves, now mostly composed. "Stunning performance," he praised, chuckling in what looked like disbelief. "Gotta say… didn't know you had that in ya."

With eyes smudged with mascara and cheeks stained with old tears, Harleen glowered at him. "I played your game, J. I ain't stayin' here any longer."

Joker stood with dark eyes and Harleen felt the terror from before sink back into her bones, confidence dwindling. "Oh, but that's not stated in our agreement," he began, dragging out each word and taunting her. "And you owe me."

Harleen crossed her arms over her chest, still feeling exposed. "I haven't agreed to anything," she retorted as he grew near.

Huffing out a laugh, Joker smacked his palm to his forehead. "Right, right, I forgot… Nothing you say _matters anymore,_ now that you're mine."

She opened her mouth to snap, or cry, maybe even defend — but a gun was pressed beneath her jaw. Joker's other hand tangled in her hair and yanked back, deliberately replicating the first time they had ever touched. But instead of his tongue, it was a loaded barrel.

More furious than afraid, Harleen glared up at him beneath wet lashes, gritting out, " _You. Don't. Own. Me."_

Joker cocked the gun and she flinched. He tucked some of her hair away with the barrel of his golden pistol.

"In the day time, you can be Little Miss Harleen Quinzel," he sneered at her, "But at night, dancing for me in my establishment?" He dragged the barrel over her lips, just as his finger had done before. "You're _Harley Quinn._ "

* * *

 _So sorry for the wait between updates. I came down with an awful cold and it's still not completely gone. Thank you so much for reading, I love you all. Reviews are always adored and welcomed and I will try to update very soon._

 _P.S. If you'd like to listen to what Harleen was dancing to, look up Guilt by Nero and fast forward a minute in. ;)_


	11. Scissors, Maybe

She told me I was awful.

Man, that shit did not phase me.

Tell me how I suck again,

my memory is hazy.

\- Childish Gambino, Bonfire

 **Warning: This chapter contains mature content and descriptions of drug use.**

* * *

Harley Quinn.

No one had ever called her that before.

Like a vaccine, like a _toxin,_ the name made its way into her bloodstream and tattooed itself wickedly behind her eyelids. Blonde lashes fluttered shut. Lips parted. Posture slackened. She sighed against the barrel of his gun.

Joker preened. There she was. His creation. And all it had taken was a name.

"You like the sound of that?" he mused so softly it could be considered intimate, "You want this?"

The woman in front of him that was not at all Harleen let out the tiniest, breathy laugh. Joker felt his chest swell with that — that _something,_ and he couldn't find it in him to feel disgusted this time. Instead, he slowly holstered his pistol and mapped out his future along the dips and valleys of her face.

"Uh, Boss? Falcone's nephew is here to speak with you."

At the sound of Jonny's voice, Harleen opened her eyes as if waking from a dream and looked around, undoubtedly disoriented. She looked so vulnerable in this moment and Joker had to reel in his lust.

"Take her home," Joker forced out in a growl, slicking back his hair and picking up the still-burning joint from the crystal ashtray. Grey eyes flicked up, and he caught Harleen's gaze as he took a long, leisurely drag. Smoke slowly escaped his lips like a ghost as he spoke. "Want a hit of this?"

Dying to just go home and scream into her pillow, Harleen stiffly shook her head and scrunched her nose in disgust. "I ain't a fan of drugs."

Before he could talk himself out of it, Joker grabbed Harleen's jaw, roughly pressed his lips to hers, and blew the remaining smoke into her mouth.

Startled by the abrupt kiss and oblivious to his reasoning, Harleen inhaled sharply—but wrenched away from him when her throat began to burn.

"Joker!"

Smoke billowed in front of Harleen's face when she coughed and she could see Joker fall into hysterics through the fog.

"You're a fuckin—" Glaring at him, Harleen hacked on her words, unknowingly strengthening the effect of the drug, " _Asshole._ "

Her fingers itched to grab the beer off of the table and throw it in the clown's face, but Harleen lifted it to her lips instead to soothe her aching throat.

As Jonny tugged her out of the booth, Harleen shot Joker a dirty look and mouthed the words, "Fuck you."

Grinning silver, Joker winked and waved her off.

"Where's Caroline?" she demanded once they had left, fighting back the urge to zone out. God, the stars were so pretty. "What did you do with her? Huh? I swear, if you hurt my friend —"

"She's drugged upstairs and won't remember a thing in the morning," Jonny replied bluntly, running a hand over his beard. "Relax."

"Relax? How do you expect me to relax right now?" Harleen shoved him, but Jonny was a built like a brick wall and barely moved. He gave her a short laugh at the attempt and she seethed. "What, you think I'm cute when I'm angry, or somethin'? Cause in that case, I'm about to get real _gorgeous_ —"

"Would you rather she know and die because of it?" Jonny countered impatiently, placing a hand on the small of her back as they rounded the corner. Harleen wanted to shrink away from his touch, but the alleyway was eerie, so she allowed it. This time.

Boy, was the weed starting to hit her. It took five minutes for Harleen to realize that she had never verbally replied to him, only ranted in her thoughts — but in that same instance, she had forgotten what they had been talking about altogether. Huh. She sniffed at the air. Was there pizza nearby?

Jonny wanted to push her in front of a bus when Harleen began to loudly hum _Pure Imagination_ , but he bit his tongue and counted to ten. Boss would kill him if something happened to his new toy. This much he knew.

But his logic didn't stop him from picking Harleen up and throwing her carelessly into the backseat once they reached his car. The few sharp turns he took to make her tumble around like a sack of potatoes was incredibly therapeutic.

An hour later, Harleen was half-naked in bed next to an empty bag of chips, giggling at how her toes looked when she wiggled them.

"This little piggy went to market…"

* * *

Arkham was red in the face by the time Harleen showed up for work the next morning.

After listening to the six furious voicemails the night before, she had decided it would be best to pretend that her cellphone had gone missing. Oops. How unfortunate.

Harleen sipped at her coffee in the employee lounge and flashed Arkham an innocent smile when he came charging in. "Morning, sir!"

"Do you play me for a fool, Quinzel?" Arkham sneered at her, stepping into her personal space. "Where have you been? Why didn't you answer my calls?"

Harleen frowned a little, playing up her confusion. "I've misplaced my phone. What's the matter?"

"What's the matter? What's the _matter_?" Arkham spluttered, ripping off his glasses. "The matter is your goddamn patient broke out last night and is on the loose!"

"He broke out." Harleen echoed flatly, brows set. She shook her head. "No, that's impossible."

What a lie. Joker was an enigma. With the right amount of motivation, he was capable of anything.

"If you're questioning my word, Quinzel, you can go ahead and check his damn cell."

Arkham was a sleep-deprived, infuriated mess, with his loosened tie and — was his lab jacket inside-out?

Feigning impending alarm, Harleen blinked rapidly and gaped at him with big, blue eyes. "I— but I was just with him!"

" _Exactly._ You were with him for nearly twenty-four hours."

Harleen's heart stopped at his words. Wait a minute. She stared at him in disbelief. "I didn't help him, Doctor Arkham. I wasn't even here."

Distressed, Arkham took a step back and lowered himself into one of the plastic chairs to address her seriously. "He killed my nephew. The son of a bitch beat him to death with a stapler before stripping him of his uniform and walking out wearing it."

It took every ounce of self-control not to laugh out loud. Instead, Harleen turned away from him and stared at the coffeemaker, shoulders shaking in silent laughter as she envisioned Griggs being killed.

She hoped the trembling would come across as fear.

Swiping away a tear brought on by her muted giggles, Harleen composed herself and regarded Arkham with a deep frown. The corners of her mouth twitched. She sniffled.

"I am so sorry, Doctor."

Her biggest lie yet. Good riddance.

* * *

Three days later, Harleen woke to the sound of soft cackling at the foot of her bed.

It was three in the morning and she had gone to bed alone.

What a nightmare. A menacing clown breaking into her apartment and watching her sleep.

Switching on her bedside lamp, Harleen pressed a hand to her chest and felt her heart hammer against her palm. "What the hell, J!"

There he was, in all of his demented glory, twirling the rose he had given her between his fingers.

Still half-asleep, Harleen mumbled stupidly through a yawn, "Put that back. It isn't yours."

Smug and chuckling, Joker complied and plopped it back into the vase on her dresser. "Sweet of you to keep it," he teased.

Harleen gathered her comforter to her chest and crossed her arms over it, scowling at him through her fatigue. "What are you doin' here? I ain't about to take off my nightgown and dance for you." She rubbed at her eyes. "I've had a long day."

Grossed out by how blatantly cute she was in this moment, Joker looked away and gagged a little. "No thanks. Not now."

"Can we get this over with? What do ya want?" Harleen snapped, lips pursed. It wasn't a good idea for anybody to mess with her in the middle of the night.

Unimpressed with her attitude, Joker addressed her sternly, "What did I tell you about that mouth?"

"There ain't nothin' wrong with it," Harleen retorted with a grumpy scowl, hair falling in front of her face. "I haven't told anybody about you, if that's what you came to ask." She frowned. "So you can leave now."

Joker glowered at her and stepped closer with a tight jaw. "Watch it, little girl," he warned her darkly, "All of that chit-chat is gonna get you hurt."

Fed up with him, Harleen leaned forward and raised an eyebrow, challenging him slowly, "Yeah? What are ya gonna do about it, _Daddy?"_ A mocking smirk. "Spank me?"

An animalistic growl ripped from Joker's throat. "Good idea, you fucking _brat._ " Fuming, he tossed his suit jacket to the floor, effortlessly yanked Harleen's tiny body out of bed, and threw her over his lap.

"Let go of —!" Harleen furiously began, but an expensive tie was shoved into her mouth and her wrists were soon after pinned behind her back. When she felt her nightgown being flipped up to expose her bare ass, she shrieked in humiliation around the gag.

Without a moment's hesitation, Joker gritted his teeth and let his hand fall down against her flesh with a very, very hard slap.

Crying out in pain, Harleen struggled to get off of his lap, but Joker was much stronger.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

She sobbed wretchedly and begged for him to stop, but her display of mortified agony didn't halt the spanking. If anything, the intensity increased.

Smack. Smack. _Smack!_

Harleen screamed and arched her back. The rings on his fingers were starting to bruise her and Joker was relentless.

It took thirteen spanks for her to begin submitting. Slowly, beautifully, Harleen relaxed against his lap, and the frequency of his blows decreased when her desperate sobs turned into soft weeping.

Panting from exertion, Joker ran his palm over the abused flesh and experimentally let go of Harleen's wrists. She didn't move away and he knew it was safe to take the tie out of her mouth.

Joker had planned to dump her onto the floor when he was finished and leave without another word, but Harleen was so — so _good,_ crying pitifully against the fabric of his dress pants, so he scooped her up and tried not to flinch when she pressed her wet face into his neck.

"I'm sorry," Harleen whimpered and hiccuped, clinging to him. "I'm so sorry."

Joker didn't regret his punishment. It had to be done. "You're forgiven, Harley-girl," he mumbled, allowing her to settle down in his arms. "It's over, now."

Soothed by his words, Harleen let out a long breath and was asleep by the time Joker tucked her into bed.

* * *

Walking through Arkham Asylum with a sore ass without grimacing proved to be extremely difficult. Despite how exposed it made her feel, Harleen had opted out of wearing panties because the contact was too painful. She stopped into the bathroom more than once that afternoon, locking the door behind her to take a peek at her aching bottom in the mirror.

The blotchy handprints stung when Harleen touched them, but nothing compared to the dark welts left behind from Joker's rings. Those were the bruises that made it impossible to sit down without crying out.

Opening her purse and rummaging through it, Harleen thought back to the note she had found on her pillow that morning.

 **Be a good girl and apply lotion frequently. - J**

 **P.S. Check your closet. Be ready to leave by midnight.**

She felt slutty and humiliated, smoothing lotion over her beaten ass in the employee bathroom. Never in her life had Harleen been hit, let alone by a psychopathic clown thug. Knowing that Joker had spanked her raw in the middle of the night made her shudder. And the fact that she had ended up crying in his arms like a baby —

Splashing some cold water in her face, Harleen gripped the edge of the bathroom sink and took a deep breath as droplets collected by her chin. She wouldn't allow herself to like it. She just wouldn't.

Three gentle but unexpected knocks on the door made Harleen jump out of her skin.

"Harleen? Are you in there?"

Quickly, Harleen gathered some paper towel and blotted the water off of her face and neck. It was Joan Leland, the only other female psychiatrist in the institution. Her level of experience intimidated her to say the least.

"Yeah, I'll — I'll be right out! Sorry!"

Making sure her skirt was smoothed down over her backside, Harleen sheepishly unlocked the door and opened it with a tight smile. Joan flashed a kind smile of her own as she stepped inside, all perfect black hair and mocha skin.

"You doing okay?" Joan questioned, uncapping a tube of lipstick. She gave Harleen a look in the mirror that screamed pity. "It's been a rough week for everybody." A knowing pause. "For you."

Rolling back her shoulders, Harleen stepped in front of the adjacent mirror and fixed her hair. "I'm fine," she assured stiffly, "Just fine."

"When Joker is captured again — which he _will be_ ," Joan added pointedly, "I'd be happy to take him off of your hands, now that I'm back from vacation."

What a snob.

"Not a chance," Harleen fired back heatedly, adjusting the strap of her purse over her shoulder. There was a curious fire in her chest at the thought of Joan alone with Joker. This earned her an odd look from Joan and she quickly corrected, "No thank you. I'm not afraid of him."

Joan raised an eyebrow. "You should be. You know who he is, right? What he has committed?"

"I'm more than aware." Harleen set her jaw and frowned. "I've been treating him for almost two months, Joan. I know him more than any of you."

"Fine." Miffed by her temper, Joan snapped at her on the way out, "That's Doctor Leland, to you."

Harleen glared daggers at her back and waited until she was gone to properly flip her off.

What a bitch. Maybe Joker could kill her next, if she promised to behave. With something worse than a stapler. She giggled and bit her lip. Scissors, maybe.

Woah, woah, _woah._

Thoroughly alarmed by her morbid train of thought, Harleen splashed more water on her face and let out a frustrated whine.

God, did her ass hurt.

* * *

 _Very sorry for the wait. School started back up, but I have adjusted accordingly. :') Thank you all so much for reading. Your reviews, favorites, and follows are adored. Will update soon._


	12. Bye-Bye Birdie

"White sheets, bright lights.

Crooked teeth and the night life.

You told me this is right where it begins."

\- Halsey, Is There Somewhere

 **Warning: Rating has been changed to M.**

* * *

"Put that _down_ , Harley-girl."

Harleen flinched hard and pressed a hand to her chest, immediately dropping the switchblade onto the table. "Shit, you walk real quiet, J."

Unamused, Joker took off his suit jacket and sat across from her. The club was stuffy tonight from all of the bodies. It made him grouchy. "You know better than to touch what isn't yours."

"I was curious," Harleen defended weakly, taking a small sip of her champagne.

There was a thin, wooden box at the end of the table and Joker opened it to retrieve a cigar. He placed it between his teeth and lit a match. "What, haven't seen a knife before?"

She looked over to the emerald blade again, the diamond incrusted J glinting back at her. It was gorgeous. "I ain't ever seen one like _that._ "

"That's because it was made real, _real_ special." He puffed at his cigar before setting it against the ashtray, frowning. "So don't touch it again."

Harleen watched on as Joker opened a nearby deck of playing cards and tucked some hair behind her ear. "Is green your favorite color?"

"One of them," Joker replied flatly, noncommittal as he shuffled.

Her smile was audible. "But purple is your first, ain't it?"

He rolled his eyes and dealt her two cards. "I'm not in the mood to play twenty questions with you, Harley."

"Fine." After a moment, she captured her bottom lip between her teeth. "So you offed Griggs, huh?"

Not looking up from his hand, Joker grunted around his cigar, "Who?"

"Griggs. You know, creepy guard with the gap in his teeth?" Harleen watched him beneath long lashes.

"Right, right," Joker chuckled bitterly to himself, flicking ash into the tray. "You're welcome."

"Why did you do it?" She absently ran her fingertip along the top of her cards, studying his face. There would always be a part of her that wanted to get inside of his head. "You didn't have to."

"And here I thought you would be pleased." He huffed playfully. Grey eyes flicked up. "You _wound_ me."

Harleen dipped her chin and bit back a smile. This was all so messed up. "I never said that I wasn't."

Satisfied with her answer, Joker winked at her and she swooned a little. "That's my girl."

Something about his tone of voice made Harleen's cheeks burn. Flustered, she quickly looked down to her cards — then squealed with a gasp, "Full house! Ha, I win!"

" _Again?_ " Joker growled, leaning over the table to look at her cards. He shook his head after a moment. "You're cheating."

"Uh, _no_ , I won fair and square." When he scowled and pushed his cards away like a child, Harleen teased him, "You're real lucky money ain't involved. After an hour with me, you'd be broke as a _joke._ "

She was proud of that one.

Joker sneered at her and snatched his cigar from the tray. "I would rather be set on fire than listen to you anymore. Go away."

For the very first time in front of him, Harleen fell back and let out a string of high-pitched giggles. Babyish, a little ditzy, but genuine.

His scowl began to fade. What a cheeky little _minx._ Joker rolled his jaw to keep from laughing along with her, but those eyes — those fucking blue eyes had his body thrumming with want.

"You think you're funny, don't you?" Joker challenged darkly, running his tongue over his capped teeth. Never had a woman grinned so carefree beside him. That squeezing feeling in his chest returned full-force and it made him want to shoot somebody.

Harleen only grinned and twirled a strand of hair around her finger. "Uh-huh."

Jonny popped his head in and cleared his throat. "Boss, one of Mancuso's men is asking to see you."

Perfect.

"Music to my ears, Jonny! Send him in." Smirking, Joker slipped his prized switchblade into his pocket and ran his thumb over the gun in his holster. He hated fucking Mancuso. The putz owed him fifty grand.

Harleen sat up straight at the news, no longer giggling. Mancuso was a big deal in Gotham. She didn't want to get involved with _another_ powerful man. "I should — I should go, right?"

"No, no, Harley-girl," Joker tutted slyly, "That pretty dress cost me a pretty penny. Don't you want to show it off?"

"But this is—I _really_ shouldn't be here, dontcha think?" Harleen insisted, swallowing thickly. The glimmering, red dress was marvelous as it clung to her curves, but not marvelous enough to ease her apprehension.

Footsteps neared the beaded entrance and Joker lifted his chin to beckon her forward. "Come here, girl. Sit."

Knowing that she would be the most safe beside him, Harleen didn't hesitate to round the table, but she still grumbled, "I ain't a dog, Mistah J."

This earned her a rough pull onto his lap and his mouth against her ear, "Behave and watch that mouth of yours. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not ask questions. If you act up around my client, your ass will pay for it. Am I making myself clear?"

Heart in her throat, she gripped the table and nodded quickly. "Crystal."

Pale fingers wrapped securely around her waist. He was always so cold. It felt nice against her flushed skin. "Good."

Enter Mancuso's employee: grossly robust and balding — a sweaty kind of drunk. "Mr. Joker!" he slurred with a grin, "Lorenzo De Luca. Pleased to — hic! — make your acquaintance." He extended one of his pudgy hands, which went ignored.

But Joker was smiling, his default setting. "Oh, I don't doubt that. What brings you here tonight, hmm?"

Lorenzo plopped down clumsily where Harleen had once sat. By the look of him, there was more alcohol than blood in his veins. "Came to represent the Mancuso family. To welcome you back, of course. To — hic! — see the girlies, too." Dark eyes moved to Harleen. To her chest, mainly. He leered, "And who do we have here?"

Harleen stiffened and leaned into Joker without thinking. Was she supposed to respond? Was she allowed? The last thing she wanted to do was misspeak and get hit.

Joker's hand ran up along her side and she felt lightheaded. "Answer him," he coaxed, entertained.

"I'm —" Harleen licked her dry lips before forcing a quivering smile. She couldn't use her real name. "Harley. Harley Quinn. Nice to meet-cha, Mr. De Luca."

Lorenzo hummed low to himself, devouring her with hungry eyes. He wasn't even trying to be subtle about it. He wiped sweat off of his forehead. "Very, _very_ nice."

Harleen felt like throwing up. Her hand fell to Joker's thigh to anchor herself, and he stiffened — but didn't move her away.

"Does she dance?" Lorenzo grunted at Joker, eager and scooting forward.

That squeezing feeling in Joker's chest morphed into something demonic and he gritted his teeth, confused by it. "For me," he stated firmly. "She's new."

A wave of relief crashed over Harleen and she loosened her death grip on Joker's leg.

Red in the face, Lorenzo had the nerve to scowl, slurring, "C'mon, Joker. We do good business. We make good money. A piece of ass like that deserves to be passed around between friends, don't you — hic! — think?"

"Piece of _ass_?" It came out of Harleen sharp and incredulous. A certified therapist who had committed murder? Yes. A woman tipping off the edge of sanity? Probably. But never a piece of _anything._

"Tsk, tsk. Rookie mistake, pal." Faster than Harleen thought possible, Joker had pulled out his pistol and shot Lorenzo in the kneecap.

"Son of a _bitch!"_

Due to the silencer, the gunshot wouldn't draw attention, but the screams of agony coming from Lorenzo triggered Jonny to signal the DJ. A second later, the club music drowned him out.

Harleen had been frozen on Joker's lap, staring at Lorenzo's bullet wound, when she felt cool metal being pressed into her palm.

Confused, she looked down and squeaked in alarm — Joker had handed her the gun. "What? No, no, no I can't —"

"Sure you can," Joker reassured with a grin, eerily patient, "Aim between the eyes. Believe in yourself."

Trembling with nerves, Harleen wrapped her delicate fingers around the handle of his golden pistol and slowly pointed it at Lorenzo. Here goes nothing.

"Like hell!" Lorenzo spluttered, seething in pain, and he reached out to grab the gun — which promptly made Harleen panic and shoot him in the shoulder. "Agh! You fucking bitch!"

Joker burst into laughter and patted her knee. "A little low, Harley. Try again, try again…"

And there Doctor Harleen Quinzel was, in a back-alley strip club, comfortable on a madman's lap, trying her best to keep the gun in her hand steady enough to kill.

Breaking the rules had never felt so good.

She closed one eye, bit her tongue, and adjusted her grip — bang! Off went his left ear. Lorenzo passed out from the pain.

"Damn it." Harleen grunted softly, pouting and trying again. Off went his right. "This is impossible!"

Running a hand through his hair, Joker continued to lose his shit, cackling and hysterical. "He's only three feet away!"

"I know that!" Harleen huffed in frustration. Flipping some of her hair over her shoulder, she gripped the gun with both hands, pursed her lips, and finally shot him above the bridge of his nose.

In a sick, sick moment of glee, Harleen gave the dead body a wolfish grin.

And then she was airborne, tossed over Joker's shoulder as he cheered and spun her around. "Well done, Harley-girl!" he praised loudly, "Bye-bye birdie!"

Harleen only squealed in delight and laughed, surrounded by gore and insanity and _loving_ it.

Jonny, who had been watching from the sidelines, golf-clapped appropriately. "Very nice, Miss Quinn."

* * *

"What are you doing?" Joker gave her an odd look from behind his laptop. She had been touching the back of her head for five minutes and it was creeping him out.

"I just… I feel something weird," Harleen slurred, fingertips trailing up and down the bumps on her scalp. Then it dawned on her. "Oh! I never got my stitches taken out," she explained to him through giggles, "Whoops."

It had been a few hours since Lorenzo's death and they had relocated to the penthouse above to celebrate. Joker's group of men were in the kitchen area, roughhousing and playing poker, while the two of them were lounging drunkenly in the living room nearby.

Joker set aside the blueprints he was looking over and took out his green switchblade, opening it with a quick flick of his wrist.

"No way," Harleen shook her head and the room began to spin. "You ain't sober enough to touch me with that."

"You underestimating me?" Joker raised an eyebrow, standing. Sure, his vision was a little blurry, but he still had a steady hand. Sort of. Whatever.

"You'll scalp me, Mistah J," Harleen insisted, shrinking back against the black couch she was laying on as he approached. "I'll have someone at Arkham take care of it."

Arkham. The word made Joker nauseous and he shook it out of his head, sitting beside her. With a swift tug, Harleen was against him, and he balled her hair up in his fist to expose her neck.

"Where is it?" Joker squinted at her hairline and cackled at her darker roots. "Are you a brunette, Harls?"

Harleen's cheeks flared. "What, like your hair is naturally green?" she snapped, embarrassed. He continued to laugh. Wanting to change the topic, she reached back to point out her scar. "There."

Pushing back some of her hair, Joker raised his eyebrows, impressed with the damage he had caused. Nine whole stitches. He tilted his head to the side. "Huh. Would you look at that."

"You thought I was lyin' or somethin?" Harleen asked moodily, tensing when he lifted the blade. "Be careful."

"Shut up." He was playing an adult game of tipsy Operation and he needed to concentrate. It took over a minute, but he managed to take them all out without nicking her.

But there her neck was again, on full-display. Unblemished. Perfect. He licked his lips and dragged his knife along the back of Harleen's neck, just light enough to not break the skin.

She shuddered hard when she realized what Joker was doing. "J…"

"Sit still, Harley-girl," Joker flicked a lock of green out of his eyes. "It'll hurt more if you move and I want it to look nice."

Harleen's pulse spiked and she began to sweat. "What'll hurt? What are you talkin' about?" Slowly, the back of her neck began to sting and she hissed sharply. "Jesus, ow!"

"Don't be a baby, it's not even deep." Joker scolded, focusing on the small, deliberate cuts he was making. Her blood was like rubies as it trickled.

Dizzy from discomfort, Harleen whined softly. He was scaring her. "How long is this gonna take?"

"Turned out better than I thought," Joker hummed to himself, pocketing his switchblade. At the base of her neck was an old-fashioned J, looping and permanent. He wiped away the blood with his thumb, making her whimper, and stuck it in his mouth to suck it clean.

Harleen turned around and made a face at his bloody smile. Even if it was a little contagious. "Alright then, my turn." She held out her hand expectantly. When Joker didn't comply out of confusion, she glared. "If I get a J, you're getting a damn H."

Tickled by her idea and too drunk to say no, Joker handed over the blade and sniggered when his shirt was tugged off. "Jeez, Harley. At least buy me dinner first."

Jonny walked by, choked on his beer, and rounded the corner.

"You wish," Harleen teased, propping herself up onto her knees. The weapon felt heavy in her tiny hand as she positioned it against the back of Joker's right shoulder.

Five torturous minutes later, a jagged H was carved into pale flesh and Joker was wincing through laughter — it shifted into a low growl, though, when he felt her hot tongue lap at the sensitive wound.

Harleen's girly Brooklyn lilt was soft and mischievous against his ear when she slurred, "Thank you, Daddy."

Oh, he was going to absolutely destroy her.

* * *

 _So sorry for the gap in updates. School is nuts. Next update will be much sooner, ducklings. Thank you so much for reading. Your reviews make my day._


	13. Greek Tragedy

**I'm incredibly sorry for the extra long wait. I hope you're all still here with me. x**

* * *

They think I'm insane.

They think my lover is strange.

But I don't have to fucking tell them anything.

\- Halsey, Strange Love

* * *

Harleen woke the next morning like a dead hooker, curled up on an unfamiliar kitchen counter with vomit in her hair. She felt like somebody had beat the shit out of her, from the way her body ached. But the headache that she was rocking — oh, a headache was a gentle way of putting it — it told her that the only thing she was suffering from was a wicked hangover.

With blue eyes squinting, Harleen forced herself to lift up her head and nearly toppled to the ground from the wave of dizziness. The cold marble she had passed out on was smudged with lipstick and slick with her sweat. She ran her fingernails over whatever was itching at the back of her neck — was that dried-up blood?

"What the fuck are you doing up there?"

She didn't need to look up. By now, Joker's voice lived and thrived in the depths of her brain, poisonous and demented. So she groaned and set her head back down. Sure, the counter was majorly uncomfortable, but it was keeping her grounded.

"Ungh."

Unbeknownst to Harleen, Joker was sporting only a white towel around his hips as he approached her, his swagger lazy from the early hour. Peering down at her, he smirked.

With the way her golden dress had ridden up around her hips, he had a fantastic view of her panty-covered ass, and he could still see the small welts and fading bruises from when he had punished her.

Fucking delicious.

It made him lick his lips and roll back his shoulders, proud of himself. He gave her beaten ass a firm smack out of boredom and she yelped in pained surprise.

He snickered through capped teeth, "Get off of my counter, Harley-girl. You're disgusting."

" _You're_ disgusting," Harleen shot back weakly, and she heard him laugh his Harleen-laugh. Light, genuine, low. She hated the way it made her smile. "What time is it?"

He opened the refrigerator and got himself a bottle of water. "Time for you to get a watch."

"Shit." Harleen's arms trembled as she pushed herself up. "I work today. Shit. _Shit._ " The cool tile against her feet when she got down made her shiver. "I can't miss another session with Crane," she mumbled to herself, starting to look around for her shoes.

Joker choked on the water he was drinking. Tight panic lodged abruptly in his throat as he whipped around, dark circles under deep-set eyes. "Did you say Crane?"

 _Bang._ Harleen managed to stub her pinky toe on the coffee table. Crying out, she fell back onto the couch and gripped at her foot, whimpering. "Ow!"

"Harley," Joker growled, rounding the corner with a purpose. "I asked you a question."

Blinking away tears, Harleen looked up at him and got an eye-full of his toned body. For a moment she thought he was naked. Her mouth went dry. "…Huh?"

His hand shot out and gripped at her chin, forcing Harleen to look up at him properly. Her lingering glance was flattering, but now was not the time. "Are you treating Jonathan Crane?"

Harleen winced, the sudden jerking motion amplifying her headache. "Yeah. He was given to me once you…" She gave him a vague hand motion. "Left."

Fury spread like wildfire through his veins. White-hot, making him lightheaded. He ripped away from her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Harleen watched him pace, lipstick smeared over her cheek, neck covered in her own blood. She was starting to feel nauseous again. The motivation to go to Arkham was growing dim as she raised an eyebrow. "Since when did you care?"

How Jonathan Crane had gotten thrown into Arkham Asylum baffled Joker. He was a previous psychologist, not unlike Harleen, with a genius-level intellect and a handsome face. But despite his soft-spoken, gentlemanly demeanor, Crane was a master of psychological warfare. The shit the guy came up with was magnificent — hallucinogenics that made fear nearly tangible — but Joker didn't want it anywhere near his Harley.

Grey eyes flitted over Harleen's neck, over the initial he had drunkenly carved. There as no fucking way he would allow Crane to tamper with his property.

"I forbid it," Joker told her in a dangerous octave. He pointed at her angrily. "Tell Arkham to give him to somebody else."

He forbid it? Harleen couldn't help but scoff. "Look, Mistah J. Whatever we got goin' on here?" She motioned between the two of them. "It's after-hours. It doesn't include my job."

"This isn't up for negotiation, _little girl_ ," Joker snarled, plagued with deranged scenarios of Harleen wailing in fear, of Crane turning her into his lab rat. His pulse rushed. "He'll tear you apart."

"God forbid some other psycho gets in my brain, right?" Harleen sneered. She didn't want to be here anymore. It was too early. It was hard to think straight when her head throbbed every time she blinked. So she stood and picked up her heels.

Joker worked his jaw in frustration, wishing he could cut himself open to rid himself of the squeezing in his chest. "Harley…"

"You think I can't handle it, or somethin'?" Harleen frowned, body-language tight with hurt. When he didn't reply, she turned to leave. "Well, screw you. That's real shitty."

All of this unfamiliar emotion was starting to make him sweat. He let out a roar of exasperation and slammed his fist against the wall, his voice strangled, "Don't you see I'm trying to _protect_ you?"

Harleen halted at his words. Protect. The word made her feel warm all over. She looked over her shoulder, expression softening. "You mean that?"

With his teeth bared, Joker rolled his neck and looked up at the ceiling. Maybe he should just shoot the bitch himself. Surely that would rid him of whatever the hell was tormenting him. She was making him weak.

Jonny Frost bounded up the stairs, gun in hand. The loud bang Joker had created when he punched the wall had alarmed him. His dark eyes moved between the two. The blonde his boss demanded on spending time with really did look like a clown, with her smudged mascara and smeared lipstick.

"Boss?"

Disgusted with himself, Joker cracked his knuckles, lip curling. He needed to kill something. Blow something up. Make something bleed. "Take her home."

And with that, he stomped away into his office and slammed the door behind him.

Harleen ducked her head and bit her lip, color in her cheeks, and kept a stupid little smile on her face all the way home.

* * *

Even after showering away the blood and grime and puke and swallowing three Advil, Harleen was nowhere near able to return to work. She was getting abs from all of the dry-heaving. So Harleen put on her best scratchy throat and called Arkham's personal cell, effectively convincing him that she had a cold. Which earned her a lecture on responsibility, but Harleen endured it. At least she could spend the rest of the day in bed.

The next day, Harleen drove through the rickety gates of Arkham bright and early, wanting to get a head-start on the work she had left behind. Surely Joan Leland had gloated in her absence. She had tended to play up any sign of Harleen's vulnerability.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that Joan wanted her fired.

Like hell was Harleen going to let that happen. She didn't go to college for six years to have her ass handed to her by some stuck-up bitch in an expensive pants suit.

Needless to say, Harleen was glowing with pride when she had completed what she had missed before the clock struck twelve. And she would have finished even sooner, if Joker's words hadn't been ringing in her ears.

 _Don't you see that I'm trying to protect you?_

Nibbling on the top of her pen, she allowed herself to zone out. Harleen couldn't decide what to daydream about more: the possessive look in Joker's eyes last they spoke, or his V-shaped hips peeking out from under that little towel.

She melted in her seat. Fuck. She was so, so screwed.

"I don't see how Arkham keeps you here when all you do is slack off."

Joan's voice was sharp and unpleasant from the door of her office. It made Harleen's shoulders jump and she glowered, straightening. "Can I help you?"

She shrugged. "Probably not."

Harleen bit the inside of her cheek and rolled her shoulders back, gritting, "Then why are you here?"

"Came to collect your files on The Joker. You won't be needing them anymore." Joan's perfect red lips curled up into a smirk. "Since you failed."

"What?" Harleen bristled angrily in her seat. "No. They're mine. I need them for reference."

Joan threw her head back and cackled at her. "Reference for _what?_ On how to appropriately work your cleavage in order to get a patient to respond?" She glanced back down. "Spare me."

"Oh-ho-ho, Harleen may be blonde, but she's brainy, too."

Harleen's heart stopped. No. Fucking. Way. She was hallucinating. An auditory hallucination brought on from — from stress, from anxiety! From previous events of trauma! Where was her Vicodin? But there was no mistaking the lean silhouette towering over Joan's shoulder.

Except, well — Joker's outward appearance was something to be marveled over. Harleen couldn't wipe the shock off of her face.

Tattoos and dark circles were covered up with makeup, green hair hidden beneath a brown wig. Capped teeth were even covered with false whites. And his outfit was so _ordinary_ , a white dress shirt tucked into boring brown slacks.

"Who… Who…?" Joan stammered before clearing her throat and taking a step back. Her eyes narrowed. "Do I know you?"

Harleen exhaled shakily through her nose, relieved. Stupid bitch.

"I'm afraid not." Joker flashed his fake pearly whites and extended his normal-looking, not at all tattooed hand. "Name's Jerome. Pleased to meet you."

What a smile. Harleen could tell that Joker was having the time of his _life._

Joan hesitantly shook his hand and searched his face. "Doctor Leland. Do you have permission to —"

"Boy, do I," Joker grinned, tapping on the visitor's lanyard hanging around his neck. "Am I interrupting? I come bearing gifts." He brought a bouquet of pink tulips out from behind his back and made eye contact with Harleen for the first time.

Harleen swooned and he winked. What kind of pipe-dream was she living in?

"No, not at all," Harleen piped up, taking great pleasure in the constipated look of jealousy on Joan's face. She grinned and crossed her legs. "Those for me?"

Jerome — _Joker_ , strolled inside to hand them to her, really hamming up his performance. "Sure are. Wanted to see if my girl had recovered from yesterday."

 _My girl._ Harleen blushed and graciously took the flowers. There was still blood under her own fingernails and the back of her neck was bandaged. This was so fucked up.

Joan smoothed out her lab coat, fidgeting and unsettled. "Friend of yours?"

Joker beat her to the punch, wanting to remain in control of the situation. He had, after all, put a lot of thought into this. "Boyfriend, actually. And a lucky one at that. Met at a support group for the grieving." He reached out and gently stroked one of Harleen's flushed cheeks with the back of his hand. "Our shared experience made us… _stronger_." Joker tucked away some of her hair, momentarily peeking at the gauze on her neck. "Isn't that right, peanut?"

Harleen was going to pass out. Trying her best to adjust to the role, she affectionately placed her arm around his waist and gave him a shaky smile. "That's right…" She grappled for a pet-name. "…Puddin'."

Joker laughed. Being slathered in foundation felt disgusting, not to mention the tightness of the wig cap, but the frazzled look on Harleen's face was worth all the trouble.

Besides. He hadn't performed in a while, due to his impromptu vacation. He didn't want to get rusty.

Uncomfortable with their exchange, Joan mumbled that she had to go back to work and excused herself, conveniently closing the door behind her.

Once the clicking of Joan's heels faded away, Harleen addressed Joker with big eyes and stood. "What are you _doing here?_ Are you _crazy?_ " Her gaze flitted over his body with less reservation now that they were alone.

"I prefer the term _mad,_ but crazy will do," Joker's voice lost the fake warmth it had held moments before and it comforted her. He smirked at her staring. "I know, I know. Dashing even in street clothes, what can I say?" He wiggled his pencilled-in eyebrows.

Face pink, Harleen moved quickly to the door to lock it and panted, panic swelling in her belly. "What if she… Aren't you afraid that…?"

"Relax, Harley." Joker purred, plopping down in her office chair. His grin was just as menacing without the grills. "Daddy's got it all under control."

Harleen ran a hand through her hair and shifted on her feet, murmuring, "I thought that—I thought we agreed that I was Harleen, here." She bit her lip and looked up sternly. "Not Harley."

Joker rolled his eyes. How annoying. "Fine, whatever. _Harleen_." He motioned casually towards the long couch against the wall. "Take a seat."

She huffed but found herself complying, grumbling under her breath. "This is _my_ office."

Grey eyes moved to the thick-rimmed glasses on Harleen's desk. Snorting, he put them on. Still the same, prescription-less lenses from when they had first met. "Gotta say, Doc. This is disappointing."

"You're going to get me fired, Mistah J," Harleen hissed, looking over to the locked door in paranoia.

With a fake frown, Joker leaned back in her chair. "Oh, what a Greek tragedy that would be. You know —" The phone rang, cutting him off. Before Harleen could react, preferably by drop-kicking the phone out of the window, he answered it, voice deep with mirth. "Arkham Asylum."

Harleen leapt forward and tried to pry the phone out of his hands. He swatted her away and she climbed over the table to reach for the plug, knocking both her files and her lamp onto the floor.

"Ah, I'm afraid she's out for lunch," Joker wrapped his free arm around her torso, pinning her in place before she could disconnect the call. She struggled in his grip like a squirming child. "May I take a message?" A long pause. His voice dropped all humor. "No, she won't be, actually."

Oh, shit. Harleen panicked and bit down on Joker's forearm as hard as she could.

Joker let out a muted grunt of pain and pushed her off the table, letting her fall to the carpet with a thud. He looked over the edge at her with a dark glare. "I'm afraid Crane is no longer her patient."

They locked eyes. "In fact, she'll be leaving _extra_ early today."

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. I promise I am not abandoning this. Life just got a little crazy. :') I'm back. x_


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